


Agape

by Malsang



Series: The Courteship of the Woods [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blasphemy, Deus Ex Machina, Developing Friendships, Epiphany, Gen, Headcanon, Inspired by The Lord of the Rings, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, My First Fanfic, Philosophy, Politics, Religion, Sedition, Verbal Sparring, Zealotry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-06 01:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17336417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malsang/pseuds/Malsang
Summary: Thranduil and Elrond are engaged in a high-stakes game of verbal poker, when a wild card turns up on flop.As Bofur might say, "Think chess pieces, defined by the rules of courtly graces - one unintentional slight, one breach of etiquette, and the future of the world might change." Sometimes the stakes are higher than what most people would consider to be no more than a box of gems, and Thranduil can play this game far better against another elf, than against a dwarf who flips the table at the first opportunity because dwarven etiquette is a bit too alien for elves to grasp.Thranduil's introspective POV of the whys of Middle-Earth, set sometime after the events depicted in Peter Jackson's 'The Hobbit' and well before the beginning of LOTR.





	1. Of Verbal Warfare

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Thaum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thaum/pseuds/Thaum) in the [Elvenking](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Elvenking) collection. 
  * In response to a prompt by [Malsang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malsang/pseuds/Malsang) in the [Elvenking](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Elvenking) collection. 



> I've just got my shiny new AO3 dashboard, and I wanna post something! Apologies for any newbie mistakes, spelling errors, mistype, and my rather ballistic approach to punctuation and paragraphs. The more I edit, the worse it seems to get. I have written far, far more than I have ever let anyone else read, and this sounded a lot more intense in my mind as I was writing it, than it does upon rereading it.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Agape: greek, biblical love (poorly) defined as not romantic/erotic, brotherly, or familial  
> Fëa: elvish, soul  
> Melmë: quenya, love  
> Mellon nín, sindarin, my friend (lit. friend my)
> 
> Imladris: Rivendell  
> Erebor: The Lonely Mountain  
> Dol Guldur: The Necromancer's fortress in southern Mirkwood  
> Aman: The Undying Lands beyond the western ocean
> 
> Eru Ilúvatar: The Allfather (The One God)  
> The Valar: archangels?  
> Dúnedain: Rangers (plural)  
> Dúnedan: Ranger (singular)  
> Istari: Wizards (plural)
> 
> Eastron: non-canon, as opposed to Westron which most people in Middle-Earth seem to speak as a first or second language.

"But I need to speak with him!"

The distressed tone which echoed throughout the Elvenking's throne room was more than loud enough to reach the elven ears of the delegation within it. To say that Thranduil was displeased would be an understatement. Though he did not recognise the voice, whomever it belonged to had just bought themselves a hundred years of the least pleasant duty he could dream up for them, for reflecting so poorly upon him at this most sensitive time. He was proud of his Silvan elves, but it was difficult for those who had few dealings with them to appreciate the subtle differences between what was in their best interests, as opposed to what would be desirable to those of more Western thinking. The Imladris delegation standing before him (not below him - it would have been inappropriate for him to address Lord Elrond from the lofty heights of his throne) were a grave threat to the future of his people. Lord Elrond was a strong voice in the movement Westwards, here to attempt to convert him to the movement and thus, in time, lead his people towards the ocean and beyond. The delicate hints that he had failed his people on more than one occasion were starting to get on his nerves, reminding him strongly of the arrogance of Thrain's grandson who had so indelicately accused him of being untrustworthy and having no honour. Dwarves were such uncouth creatures, ruled by their baser emotions. He had done his best to build bridges with the petty king - conceded that he could, on some level, appreciate the draw of material wealth - but the bearded oaf had rejected his overtures and behaved little better than an orc. Reasoning with such races was an impossible task; they measured things only by threats and the ability to make good on those threats. Imladris was a far more insidious force. Distaste for this lack of decorum was evident on the faces of all the delegates. No doubt, Lord Elrond would use this as an example to strengthen his argument on the merits of rejoining the Valar. It was a debate that stretched back to the very origins of their race, and Thranduil could not afford to feel unequal to the task. He had ordered the guards at the entrance that there were to be absolutely no interruptions. The reason that the throne room was so large, was to prevent exactly this kind of thing - elven hearing being so acute that the large halls men considered necessary for private conversations were laughably inadequate when negotiating with elves. His father's advisors, sited at the far end of such halls, had been able to hear every word, and he their counsel, whilst mortal men had to stoop to whispering in the ear of their kings which was, obviously, perfectly audible to the ears of all the frontline elven delegates. The scale of his own throne room was a direct reaction to that nuance of negotiating tactics. He could not hear the moderated voices of the guards at the entrance of the chamber, and no-one beyond that could hear what was spoken at the centre, where there were no walls nearby to reflect and propagate the sound. The words "But it IS important!" however, were perfectly audible to their ears. Why his guards had not removed the offender from the vicinity of the throne room was beyond his ability to imagine. It was a most grievous lapse of judgment on their part - they were handing him to Imladris on a silver platter. He could not possibly dismiss such an important delegation to deal with another matter, which meant that Lord Elrond was required to condescend to excuse a king, in his own kingdom, to deal with an affair of state. Which of course he could not allow, which meant that he would be held in contempt for not putting the needs of his people above all else, which in turn weakened his stance in these negotiations. The alternative was worse; he could not afford to insult Imladris by implying that a lowly Silvan elf could possibly have something more important to say than their own half-blood lord. These elves would someday stand before the Valar, and their final impressions of him would stand in judgment of him and his people before these champions of Light.

If anything, Lord Elrond looked more pained by this situation than he did, and pity was quite the opposite of the attitude he needed to cultivate in the mind of the half-elf. He braced himself for what he knew was coming, hoping beyond hope that his guards had had the good sense to gag the intruder. That would leave him only with the task of fielding any subtle implications on the nature of how he chose to discipline his people for such severe breaches of protocol. He would have to be even more agile in his tactics to avoid becoming trapped in defending his actions, until he could return to a more persuasive stance.

"Forgive me, King Thranduil," Lord Elrond opened, "I must humbly beg your leave to deal with this matter."

Thranduil blinked, his mind scrabbling to catch up after being blindsided in this way. "He is one of yours?" Surprise was something he couldn't keep out of his tone but, thankfully, it could be interpreted many ways. This was an even more crucial moment than he had realised, for it was Imladris who had been undermined and he who had been strengthened. He could ill afford not to take full advantage of this interruption, but he must not overplay his hand by moving too quickly.

"A ward the Dúnedain placed in my care." Lord Elrond clarified, "Unfortunately, once he has set his mind to a certain course, dissuading him is extremely challenging if not completely impossible. I regret to say that he will not leave and await a more appropriate moment to discuss whatever it is that he has concluded to be of vital importance, that he simply must impart. He will only become further distressed and disruptive in his behaviour."

Oh, this was simply priceless. Eru Ilúvatar himself could not have handed him a more perfect example to strengthen his position. "Then by all means, let him approach." he announced silkenly, revelling in the discomfort his magnanimous condescension caused the delegation as he nodded to his personal guard to carry out his wishes. Thus he denied Elrond any opportunity to deal with the matter privately, away from Thranduil's oversight. He could not afford such generosity, when such an individual could potentially offer him everything he could possibly need to fatally undermine Lord Elrond's stance. "I assume that you attempted to dissuade him from accompanying you." he continued, mercilessly pressing the point home: Of course he had. No elf in their right mind would allow such an individual to accompany a diplomatic party, if they had any power to prevent it. Now, the tables were turned and it was he who was in the position to fling barbs concerning policy decisions on discipline. Lord Elrond must answer, or risk offering unretractable insult himself.

"The Dúnedain trained him too well." Elrond rallied in an attempt to salvage his reputation through the disassociation of the backhanded compliment. "He would probably have arrived before us if I had refused him. Yet skilled as he is, I do not believe him a match for the spiders of Dol Guldur, were he to attempt the forest path alone." And thus the Lord of Imladris once again snatched victory from the jaws of defeat by shifting the focus back to the issue of the Woodland elves' inability to be the dominant force in their own lands. He did not even press the point, for anything more would have left him open to insinuations of presuming to question Thranduil's fitness to rule, allowing his opponent the right to take an aggressive stance in reposte.

Thranduil had to allow this barb to pass without comment in favour of re-establishing Elrond's ward as the focus of attention if he hoped to come out ahead against such skilled opposition. It was too risky as yet to continue the topic of why this individual felt it was so important to accompany the delegation, after that counter-move. He must wait until he could observe first-hand, rather than squander the leverage offered by moving too early. It was a measure of Elrond's esteem for his opponent's skill, that he had opted to make it so blatantly risky, rather than encourage overconfidence and await a misstep. Unless of course, he stood to lose far more by revealing these reasons and was attempting to mask just how fatal an injury this was to him - in the hope that blind chance would offer salvation if he could just buy enough time. In which case, his play would be to instill wariness of his ward from the outset and discourage curiosity. Elrond could predict better than he, how this exchange would play out. Even if this were to play out that way however, at minimum merely observing the exchange between them would strengthen his position at no cost to him. Chance could fall either way, after all. The focus would shift by itself when the guards returned. He need risk nothing further - halting the proceedings at this point could only strengthen the illusion of magnanimity; a king graciously allowing the baser needs of the visiting party to take priority. It was safer to await events and see how they would play out - it was a strategy he returned to time and again, for anything else often proved inferior.

Thus they waited, neither party breaking the silence and stillness once it had taken root. From where he stood, he could observe what was happening beyond the delegation in his peripheral vision. The guard was having to hasten after the figure who had finally been given leave to enter. Everything about him strongly suggested a Dúnedan at this distance, from the way he moved to the clothes he wore and the style of his beard - the kind easily maintained with nothing but a belt-knife. Yet as he drew closer, there was something off about this initial image that, once the mind had noted it, could not be ignored. Presently his eyes picked out a specific tell; the wild, raven-black hair stood in stark contrast to the young man's eyes, which were as yellow as those of the wildcats of the North and as intense as the sun. He caught the considering look as Lord Elrond noted his reaction, but though he returned his attention to him, the older elf did not deign to answer the unspoken question.

Eventually the youngster reached them and, slightly winded, stood to one side to encompass the entire party with his perfunctory bow. Unacknowledged, he ventured "Why are you all imitating statues?"

Elrond blinked and condescended to look at his ward while several members of his entourage struggled to hide a smile. "Have you any idea what you are interrupting?" he asked with deceptive mildness.

"Some sort of verbal-swordsmanship tourney?" There was a distinct lack of reverence in his tone.

Thranduil made the mistake of looking at him then. The lad's golden eyes raked him from head to toe and back, and then returned immediately to Elrond. He had never been so swiftly and completely dismissed as irrelevant in his life. Worse, Elrond was now struggling to hide his own smile as he returned his ward's gaze.

"And what is it," the Elflord continued mildly, "That you consider so important that you feel the need to interrupt?"

Rather than looking abashed at the subtle rebuke, the young man stood straighter, like a guard ordered to report. He did however fumble to begin, as if he had prepared his reply from a different beginning. "My Lord, the texts you gave me to study, the Eastron ones... They translate agape as melmë, but they do not elaborate on this further..."

Elrond raised a hand to the side of his face, two fingers massaging his temple, eyes closed. An amazingly open gesture of strained patience, but perhaps the overzealous scholar spent more time looking at parchment than at faces, and required such blatant cues. "And this could not have waited until we were done for the day?"

"No, my Lord."

There was a surprising amount of astonished confidence in that reply, as if he expected them to immediately infer that this was far more important for Elrond to be listening to than speaking with the mere King of the Woodland Realm. Thranduil saw Elrond's gaze flick towards him in concern over his reaction to this social solecism only in his peripheral vision; he gaze was firmly fixed upon this disrespectful youngster, considering just how much open hostility he could afford to show over this insult and what the consequences would be. Conversely, he was uncertain that hostility was the best manoeuvre to undertake with this child, whose lack of social subtlety would likely render him blind to anything but blatant displays of ill-temper. Displays he really could not afford to indulge in before the delegation. However, he could not afford to let this further dismissal of his relevance stand. He needed the boy to at least acknowledge him as intelligent enough to be taken into account. That required him to be at least superficially charming and attentive, whilst the delegation would grasp any undertones he chose to weave into that. "You believe that your studies have bearing on these negotiations?" He was rather pleased with the flinch his delicate sarcasm elicited from one of the younger members of the delegation. Elrond's reaction was less transparent however, and immediately he wondered if he had somehow walked himself into some subtle trap. His wife had occasionally made him feel that way when he spoke to his son, as if he was stepping on her toes in how she wished Legolas to be raised. As in other areas, he had withdrawn from open interference in favour of watching and waiting. When she had died, his grief had only distanced him further from the prince. By the time the wounds to his fëa had scarred over, Legolas had developed an independence from him that was firmly entrenched and he did not know how best to proceed. The amber eyes that met his now were nothing like his son's, except in their unshakably self-confident independence.

"Do you love Lord Elrond?" came the blindspot assault, fully excusing the strangled gasp he overheard from a hapless delegate. The boy took his silence as sufficient reply, "I believe that they have bearing." All eyes turned to Elrond, following the young man's lead as he awaited permission to elaborate.

The Elflord's expression was a blank, frozen mask as he exercised rigorous control over his reactions. "Mellon nín," he ventured, "Are you quite certain that this cannot wait? We are not in the libraries of Imladris. Your words here have consequences that, perhaps, you cannot forsee."

The young man reply was equally schooled to neutral factuality. "The same can be said of your own, my Lord, Elrond Peredhel."

It was perhaps the most elegantly audacious reposte that Thranduil had ever witnessed. This yellow-eyed young man had neatly reflected the Elflord's attitude straight back at him, cornering him against Thranduil-as-witness in an untenable position, in utterly nonchalant disregard for the wider consequences of doing so. Quite breath-taking, how absolute his confidence must be. He savoured the moment like the delicate, fresh sweetness of spring sap, for it could not last except in memory. He did not envy that golden gaze now, for Lord Elrond must capitulate before it and yet could not. The first true hint of sympathy for the older elf was born in him, and yet he did not wish those merciless eyes upon him in Elrond's stead. The tension in the throne room reached new heights as the rest of the delegation slowly realised the full import of these words, and one by one they looked away, unable to bear the agony of empathy. It dawned on Thranduil that he could have asked for no greater champion, for the tension could not have been greater if Elrond's ward was holding a naked blade to his lord's throat, the killing stroke inevitable, whichever authority figure gave him permission to strike. Yet now the opportunity was laid before him, he could not bring himself to speak. He found that did not wish to see Elrond so defeated. Perhaps the boy's question had merit, for he could not describe this slowly growing sense of agony within him as fuelled by anything but love, however strange it sounded. Thus eventually, he too looked away from the pair.

Softly, and with an almost otherworldly tenderness, this Dúnedain charity case whispered, "Enough of these lordly games." and walked away without another word.

Relief and shame washed over him in equal measure. Perhaps over all of them. Even by the time his ward had left the chamber and Thranduil found it bearable to once again look upon the Elflord's still-frozen face, staring blankly at the space where his ward had stood, neither of them could find anything to say. He could only conclude that they had both lost, equally and utterly, to someone whom they had both underestimated. Yet somehow they must continue past this moment. When Elrond finally met his gaze, it was like looking into a void, like looking upon death itself. Only when his own scars surfaced in remembered agony, did something kindle in the dark depths of those formerly lifeless eyes. What exactly it was, was beyond his ability to guess, apart from the basest desire to continue to live. Yet that was enough for his scars to fade back into the depths of his memories. It was enough for him that they were both still standing. As he held that gaze, he willed for it to be enough for Elrond also; he found that he did not want to play this 'lordly game' anymore. After what seemed like an eternity, Elrond began softly, to speak again.

"When they first brought him to me, they told me that his mind was broken and asked if I could do anything for him. I gave them my word that I would do everything I could for him. Sometimes that was little more than food and shelter, at other times he has been the most challenging person I have ever encountered. Today, I believe that he has repaid me in full for every unintentional act of cruelty, and every act of charity, which I have ever shown him. I believe that the Dúnedain were wrong to say that his mind was broken, though how his mind works and how he reaches the conclusions he does is still beyond my ability to comprehend."

Elrond's voice was slowly regaining tone and colour, as he unburdened himself of the isolation of keeping these facts to himself. It was a trend that Thranduil wished to encourage, though for very different reasons than he had deemed important earlier. "Does he have a name?"

"He would say that people call him many things, but that he has no name. I have never addressed him other than 'mellon nín' and encouraged others to do the same; if, for no other reason than because, you would not want him as your enemy."

Thranduil gravely inclined his head in silent acknowledgement of that truism.

"He also, surprisingly, has a rare fondness for dwarven company. I caught him sneaking food more to their liking to Thorin's company, when they passed through Imladris."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at that, but forbore to comment on it.

"Indeed. When I asked him about it, he said, and I quote, 'They remind me of goblins.' " Elrond went so far as to mimic the man's mannerisms, imbuing the phrase with a strangely wistful tone.

The Elvenking raised both eyebrows at that, his jaw dropping slightly in astonishment, though he found no words to accompany that reaction. Elrond merely raised one eyebrow and smiled gently, inviting him to share in his carefully cultivated amusement for his own inability to comprehend his ward's worldview.

"Does he," and Thranduil hesitated to consider how best to phrase the delicate question, "Does he speak highly of orcs, also?"

Elrond's smile strengthened, "He has certainly never displayed any blatant intolerance of them to me, though I would not go so far as to say that he condones their ways. I might venture, that he finds some common ground in being feared for being different, some unwelcome kinship in being hated on-sight. He will not speak of his past, but one can infer that his fondest memories are not ones he feels would endear him to the elven way of thinking."

His decorous huff of amusement was only partly at the mental image of the elves of Imladris calling such a one 'my friend' whilst trying to hide their distaste for his outlandish manners. He was more amused to discover that he actually liked this side of Elrond's personality; a facet which reminded him more of his own people, than the highfalutin graces he was required to observe in such exalted company. He was expected to be so many things in the eyes of so many people, yet since the death of his wife he had had no-one to whom he could speak without having to consider all the possible ways in which his words and actions could be interpreted. Like his father before him, he had had no-one but his own wife with whom he could simply be himself. His mother had explained this to him, when the subject of his future marriage had become more important to him than some vague idea of yet another duty that he would one day fulfill. Leadership was inherently isolating, and the right partner could make the difference between a strong leader and a wise leader. Since his wife's death it had been much harder to be seen as a wise leader and he bitterly regretted errors in judgment that she would likely have foreseen and offset, without undermining his authority. He had lost all of those elves whose counsel had made his father a force to be reckoned with, to one tragic fate or another over the years. All that were left to him were the Silvans to whom he was honour-bound to rule as wisely as he could. An immensely challenging task he could never allow to be undermined by those who generalised the welfare of elves, as if the distinctiveness of each race was something to be eroded rather than defended. He had never seen Elrond as someone who could drop his Western attitudes and see beyond his reverence for the Valar and all they represented to be good and true in life, despite his mixed heritage. His decision not to choose a mortal life for himself seemed to have made him all the more zealous in his desire to fraternise with anyone directly associated with Aman, as the Istari and the Lady Galadriel were. Radagast found no warm welcome in the halls of the Woodland Realm, despite his lofty origins. In his experience, wizards were excitable creatures who could not restrain themselves from meddling in affairs which were not theirs to concern themselves with. Given the company he kept, he had expected little better from the Lord of Imladris. As troublesome as this ward of his undoubtedly was, such extremely liberal attitudes seemed to be slowly offsetting his hard-line Western perspectives, however painful that process might be at times. He looked upon Elrond with rejuvenated eyes and concluded that there might be hope for the old elf as yet, and the smile he offered him was unaffected, "Would you care to walk the borders with me?" As king, this was more a polite way of stating what would happen next than an invitation that could be equally politely declined, yet he felt the change that had been wrought in the attitudes of the Elflord required him to make some official overture of potential friendship, and that would be better served in a less formal setting. Elrond, of course, accepted graciously, yet the smile he received in return had genuine warmth behind it. His next question would therefore be phrased to be a genuine choice rather than a royal intention automatically overriding the personal judgment of the head of the visiting delegation. The ostensible difference in their ranks was one of the reasons why it was difficult for him to visit other elves. A visiting king could not allow himself to be treated as a mere lord, whereas a prince such as Legolas had much more freedom. He had no court with which to attract elves of lesser rank yet more noble birth than his own Silvans, which further enforced his isolation. Thus it was greatly challenging for him to host this delegation in a manner which would not offend more refined sensibilities, a fact which had only reinforced his anticipation of needing to fight to both uphold his authority and defend his Silvans from Western prejudice. He had been extremely resistant to being required to receive a delegation, and more than a little surprised that Elrond had wanted to come at all, since people normally went to him rather than the other way around. This much he had gleaned from sending his son to visit other realms since, this much he knew of his wife's desires for their son's future and also, he personally would not wish solo rulership on anyone, let alone his son, had Legolas chosen to release his father from the burdens of the throne once he felt equal to the task; if Thranduil could avoid the fate of dying in battle long enough for his son to have enjoyed the life he could have lead himself if his own father had not so perished. But that future was gone now. He had risked and lost so much in an attempt to live up to his son's idealism of how a king should behave, only to see his son horrified at the reality of what it meant to lead people into battle and have them die because they obeyed you as their leader. As good a fighter as Legolas was, he suspected that now he would never allow himself to become responsible for any deaths other than those of his enemies. The ambush which their ancient enemy had sprung upon them before the gates of Erebor had shattered his son's naïve belief that elves could overcome any opposition merely because the world should work that way. He suspected that Legolas would attempt to disprove that by striving to become the greatest solo elven-warrior that the world has ever seen - this was his son after all - and he could not do that whilst bound to a throne. Thranduil must continue as king with no hope of reprieve, to allow his son to live his life in a manner that felt right to him. Being abandoned by his son only left him more vulnerable to temptations such as Elrond had been extolling, and he could never again allow himself to place his own desires before what was best for his Silvans, as a race in their own right. But perhaps now, Elrond would cease to try to undermine him and instead try to understand him. He had always believed that elves were superior because they would listen to reason rather than just brute force, even if they were deadly opponents to face-off against. Seeing Elrond so thoroughly and efficiently thrashed before his eyes by a child, when he himself could barely hold his own against the older elf, had utterly soured him on the prospect of endlessly treading the measure of these political dances. As thoroughly as his son had been soured on the prospect of leading elves into battle. Lordly games indeed; such things were bearable only until you looked upon the faces of your own dead.


	2. Some etiquette ought to be observed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil thinks himself on better terms with the Lord of Imladris now, but did Elrond's experiences truly match his own, or did the Elflord's successful change of approach completely restore his confidence in his abilities as a diplomat?
> 
> However, Thranduil's hole-cards are looking much more promising now. What will happen when the river card is revealed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it past the beginner's nerves of my first chapter, congratulations!
> 
> Rather OC-centric chapter - bear with me, a wild card needs a bit more explaining before a round of new bets can be placed.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Ainur, non-corporeal 'angels'  
> Dúnedain, Rangers, the descendants of half-elves who chose a mortal life  
> Eldar, elves, The Firstborn  
> Eru Ilúvatar, The One Allfather  
> Fellbeast, The winged mount of a Ring-wraith  
> Istari, Wizards, originally Maiar (as was Sauron originally)  
> Skin-changers - Beorn's people  
> Valar, corporeal 'angels'  
> Warg, The monstrous pack-animals ridden by orcs (which may include several species of sufficient aggression)
> 
> Aman, The continent beyond the western ocean, where elves dwell with the Valar, in Valinor  
> Eryn Galen, The Greenwood, (Sorry Jackson, Tolkien states that Mirkwood was renamed Eryn Lasgalen after the events of the Hobbit, once the spiders were gone and the lands divided, and so whether or not this happens in this story, back-canon Thorin cannot call the 'gems of pure starlight' the Gems of Lasgalen.  
> Imladris, Rivendell  
> Mordor, The Land of Darkness, a relic of the devastating works of Morgoth which Sauron chose for its (rather un-)natural defensive qualities as a base from which to attempt to conquer Middle-Earth on behalf of Morgoth.
> 
> Westron, the lingua franca of Middle-Earth  
> Lembas, Elven dry-rations
> 
> Ice-wine, An ice-distilled high-alcohol wine that could easily be made by the men of Laketown in winter from imported wine.  
> Moonshine, one of several types of magical crystalline-powders that could potentially be professionally made in Rivendell to serve Middle-Earth as pharmaceutical prescription drugs.
> 
> Hroa, quenya, corporeal body  
> Hroafelmë, quenya, emotions/impulses; possibly baser-instincts also - from -felmë, near identical to melmë (love), thus contextually probably cellular-love, the desire to remain alive and its derivative drives? Fëafelmë is also recorded as used by Tolkien.  
> Fëa, soul  
> Lírë, song
> 
> Tolkien's Theology:  
> Melkor: The greatest of the Ainur who together sung a symphony of several movements which the Allfather transformed into a physical world into which many Ainur and Maiar (demiurges) descended. Melkor was basically the first violinist of a heavenly orchestra, who the rest struggled to find harmony with, and the movements ended in cacophonous discord. Melkor went on to become the guy everyone else hated and became Morgoth with Sauron as a first lieutenant. When the Valar finally imprisoned their former leader for being a disruptive influence they didn't want to keep fighting with, Sauron took up his mantle and continued the war against the forces of light, as was pre-sung (fated).
> 
> Other notable (surprisingly major in hindsight ) influences; Hallelujah sung by Jeff Buckley (Widely known for its use as a lament in the children's movie, Shrek.)

Everyone had seemed relieved to be out of the throne room. Thranduil had managed to suggest that the rest of the Imladris group were truly free not to accompany them if they did not wish to, without making it a dismissal or insulting anyone. The younger elves had disappeared at the first hint that Elrond might permit this, rather than continue in the straining company of their elders. When Thranduil had hinted that Elrond's ward would be welcome to join them, the Elflord had used this premise to suggest that the rest of the party might prefer to disperse also, which they did with almost indecorous haste. Apparently they had had more than their fill of one yellow-eyed young man for one day.

"I would have thought that the same would be true of you, King Thranduil. I must warn you that he is much more likely to insult you in a less official setting, and I would not wish for him to shock your own people further. Mine have had the chance to get used to him on the way here, even if they had avoided him before. If you do encourage him to accompany us, I cannot predict what mayhem he might precipitate."

"He will not follow us regardless?"

"To put it bluntly, he is most likely sulking at the moment. I cannot afford to indulge him here, and I am reasonably certain that he feels that this change from the way he has become accustomed to being treated is intrinsically incomprehensible."

"He seemed to grasp the finer points of courtly manners from where I was standing."

"Perhaps we were not in the same room?" Elrond enquired politely.

For some reason, Thranduil felt increasingly uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking. "I would like to speak with him, if I may. If you feel that this would be better done in private chambers and with the bare minimum of disruption, then I am willing to go to him rather than have him come to us."

Elrond gave him a sharp look but acquiesced, leading the way to the single, modestly-sized room which had been assigned to his ward. He did however indicate that Thranduil should allow him to do the talking at first, before he knocked on the door.

It took several tries before this elicited a reply. "Unless you have more wine, you can shove off, whoever you are."

Elrond winced and turned back to Thranduil. However, there truly was no way he could tell a king that he would have to come back later if he wished to talk to someone; this was not his sick-room and these were not his lands.

The Elvenking sighed inwardly. He really did not want to be standing on ceremony right now. Childish petulance, especially of the intoxicated variety, was hardly something mortally offensive to him in an everyday sense. Often, his Silvans seemed completely unable to relax in his presence, and often that only made him feel more hard-done-by. He understood only too well how important it was to maintain an appropriate distance from them; to behave in a way that they could easily distinguish from their own manners. They were supposed to have the impression that he was a completely different species, how could they possibly believe him capable of ruling them otherwise? They could not believe themselves capable of leadership on such a scale, thus if he was one-of-them, he was not capable of it either. He had never considered Silvans intrinsically 'lowly' himself. He was aware that they thought it of themselves and that Westerners often thought it of them - which pained him, but he could not openly speak against it, even in private. If he occasionally used the word 'common' in his own opinion of them, he meant it as a synonym of native, with himself as an 'immigrant'. A scarlet jay among crows stands out, and this was the psychological premise his father had used to unite the scattered Silvans and draw them into a cooperative whole. Alone, they were weak; united, they were capable of surviving much more. There were limits to that of course, as his son had discovered to his dismay. A soldier who followed orders was inferior in single combat to a warrior, but a warrior was vulnerable to feeling overwhelmed by the sheer scale of a united opposition. He had thought to use that against Thorin, hoped to break through the madness by the psychological pressure of numbers. Daín had been an unwelcome guest at a private party - dwarves thought of fighting as 'the fun part', from what he could tell - and he was far too eager to begin the battle. He had had to fight, because otherwise his Silvans would have lost all pride and belief in themselves. Only he was allowed to make allowance for their weaknesses, they were not allowed to doubt themselves; the only thing he allowed them to believe in more than they believed in themselves, was him. As he told his son repeatedly, doubt is a far more potent enemy than any flesh-and-blood opponent. He needed his people to believe that they would not die. Perhaps if they had only been up against a dwarven army, their faith would have been sufficient. He had not hesitated when they were ambushed, he had waited. Waited until the shock and horror of the surprise had passed, waited until they had assessed what they were up against and morale had recovered, waited until the idea of not fighting was worse than the alternative, until only discipline held them back, until it would take only one more snowflake to begin an avalanche. The trick to leading a charge in battle, his father had told him, was having the patience to wait until everyone was ready, not rushing off as soon as you alone were ready. Otherwise their bodies get dragged with you, but their hearts get left behind. Thus, if you wait for their hearts to run ahead of you, you will never be a murderer. He did not always believe that last part though. He had failed to make them believe enough in themselves, if the body-count was any indication. He had murdered them, not on the battlefield, but by inferior preparation. It had been more wise to fight than to flee, but unwise not to foresee how great the need would be. Honestly, he was better at organising food production and trade with men, than he was at organised warfare, however well his father had taught him. He did not doubt his abilities as a warrior and war-leader, but Silvans were rarely born-warriors - leading soldiers was far different from fighting alongside fellow warriors. Men had armies of soldiers, and men died far too easily in battle. Yet on the battlefield, he was one-of-them, even if he was the best of them, bar only his son. The only other time he could get close to that camaraderie, was plying his people with wine. He could not get drunk with them as an equal, but he could take the edge off the differences between them, lower the intensity of the inhibitions created by being too different. It had given him a less than welcome reputation of having a court of drunkards, but whatever his people thought of him, he was not made out of marble. Being able to be in the same room as a group of people who were relaxed and having a good time was a double-edged sword, since he could never truly join in, but it kept him reasonably sane. He could understand that craving for the blurring of wine. He could understand the isolation which caused it. "If more wine is what you crave," he shouted, or rather it felt like shouting because it was hard to judge how deaf any non-elf was without knowledge of their blood-heritage, "I am quite certain that a king can arrange for such things in his own kingdom." Footsteps in a nearby corridor retreated as a Silvan assigned to wait on the delegates took the hint. "Must a generous host be reduced to begging to be hosted in turn?"

"If I let you in, would I still get to see such a rare sight?"

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at this cheek, "A sight which is not rare in these parts, as anyone will tell you, is me in a bad mood. Which is what everyone will be treated to if you do not let me in." Really it was not that much different from how he had used to speak to his young son, before he had concluded that his wife could make a far better job of it.

The door was unlocked and unlatched, but their 'host' left it to his 'guests' to make their own way in. He had his hood up as he retreated to the window, still shutting them out. A near-empty decanter of wine stood on a small table, and Thranduil helped himself to a clean gobletful.

"It's unwise to take other people's things without asking permission first." the boy recited, inflection perfect, in a passable imitation of Lord Elrond.

"It is equally unwise to be a poor host when your own host visits you. I assure you that more wine will be arriving shortly." He sipped, and added, "Better wine." This stuff must be one of the cheapest bottles in his cellar - the stuff he served to Silvan children so that they could join in at a party - near water-weak and with an inferior flavour. He downed the rest of the gobletful and resolved to be more patient.

The lad sighed, "Elrond, is there any reason that a Sindar elf would react badly to that powder you gave me?"

"Which one?" Elrond asked sharply, eyeing the goblet in Thranduil's with mild horror. Thranduil stood very still, and concentrated on keeping his heartrate down. If he had just inadvertently poisoned himself, there was some comfort in having done so in the presence of a renowned healer. Now was not the time to kick himself, or worry about what he had just consumed: Now was the time to remain perfectly calm and in control, and to do whatever the healer told him to without asking questions.

"The white one with the light-blue tint."

Elrond looked worried, but hastened to reassure Thranduil. "It won't harm you. No need for emetics or counter-agents. Not that they would be of any use in this case." He walked over to pick up the decanter, sniffing what remained of the wine. "How much did you add?"

"For the full decanter, two packets."

"And you've drunk two-thirds yourself." Elrond was trying his best to sound calm, but he did not look all that calm. "So a full third of a packet per glass." He was calculating aloud as if trying to convince himself that he was not mistaken. "Why?" he asked simply. To Thranduil he simply said "Sit. Before you fall."

Thranduil found a seat and attempted to keep his mind blank. Tried not to worry about what would happen next. The young man eyed him from beneath the hood. "I'll answer your question only if you drink the rest of it."

Elrond blinked, "I beg your pardon?"

"He's spooked, and you aren't helping. He's not going to truly believe that everything is fine unless you prove that what he did was perfectly safe."

The Elflord hesitated for what seemed a very long time, but eventually he poured out the last of the wine for himself. Subvocally he muttered, "This is insane." before downing the lot in one go.

'Battle charge,' Thranduil though to himself. 'Wiser to attack than to flee, once your heart can to overrule your head.' He watched placidly as Elrond found his own chair to sit-in, placed against the opposite wall to his own. "So what have we all drunk?"

"Moonshine. The solute of a tea made from a mixture of herbs and fungi. Mixed with sufficient alcohol as a tincture, it alters the properties of intoxication."

"There wasn't much alcohol in that wine." Thranduil pointed out.

"I noticed," the man said grimly, "I upped the dose thinking that the powder had lost potency. Elrond's undercalculated the potency slightly - I kept upping the dose until I lost my temper and emptied everything I had left into the decanter. Only when even that didn't work did it occur to me that there wasn't enough alcohol in the wine to make it work. That's why," and here he turned to Elrond, "I asked specifically about the effects of the powder, not the tincture."

Elrond looked greatly relieved at this. "The powder won't do much on its own." he told Thranduil. "If we avoid alcohol for a couple of days, then we will barely notice anything."

The young man looked sullen "I don't want it not to work on me. I was dosing myself for a reason."

Thranduil interrupted, "What about alcohol already consumed?"

Elrond eyed him speculatively, "How long ago and how much?"

"Before meeting the delegation. More than enough to floor a dwarf, enough to take the edge off my nerves for a few hours."

"Can you stand?"

He didn't feel any different, but standing proved to be more a case of attempting to haul himself upright. It was more a case of lacking sufficient will to do so, he concluded, flopping back into his chair gratefully, than anything else. He just did not care enough about whether he could stand, to overcome the immense effort involved.

"You're dosed. Wish I was. It's harder when I'm alone though, not to want to smash everything to pieces. It helps to have company."

Elrond clarified his ward's explanation, "Taken plain in food or drink, Moonshine calms someone who is raging because alcohol has removed their inhibitions against losing their temper. As a tincture, it helps certain individuals, like my ward, to process repressed emotions without losing their temper."

"Or crying." The man added, pushing back his hood to reveal his puffy features. "People aren't used to seeing men cry, it disturbs them. I'd rather be smashing things, but that scares people. Besides, there's nowhere to go around elfkind where it's okay to just destroy stuff and scream, until I don't feel like screaming anymore. So I end up like this instead." Indeed, he looked throughly miserable and depressed. "There was just enough alcohol in what I've drunk to take the razor-edge off, but the idea of trying to drink more of that sweetened-vinegar makes me feel ill."

"Are you insulting my cellar?" He didn't know why, but the notion was highly amusing to him. "Normally only children drink this. Which in your case seems extremely apt."

"Thranduil," Elrond warned him.

But Thranduil was confused, "What?"

"Welcome to my life." the man sighed, "How elves feels on Moonshine is very close to how I feel most of the time. People are always trying to reprimand you for not understanding stuff that doesn't make any sense in the first place." To Elrond he said, "It doesn't bother me, he sounds almost normal now."

"So you're saying," and Thranduil found this hilarious, "That the renowned and mighty healer Elrond has been clueless about how your mind works all this time, whilst dosing you up with the very thing that would have allowed him to understand you instantly?"

The man shrugged, "Pretty much."

"Why didn't you tell him?"

"He never asked."

"Is your entire life akin to a tragic saga, or are you just dumb?"

The man stood and walked over, which was enough to ring some warning bells in the Elvenking's fuzzy mind, but he could not find the energy to do anything about the feeling. But the overgrown-child simply dragged a chair over so that he could sit directly in front of Thranduil, close enough to touch. He leaned forward, giving the elf his full and undivided attention, and gently prompted, "Answer that question about your own life for me."

For a moment he did not understand, but then he recognised the manoeuvre, the same technique of turning an attitude back on the speaker, which he had used earlier to knock Elrond on his arse. It seemed funny to be the intended victim now. "Are you trying to kill me?" he laughed.

The man smiled at his reaction "Haven't you figured it out yet?" he teased, "Elrond is as good a warrior as he is a healer, because its the same thing turned back on itself."

It sounded like it made sense, but then it went fuzzy again. He turned it over and over in his mind, attempting to bring it back into focus. The youngster grinned, "You look like a child with a new puzzle box. I promise you, it does open, and there is something inside."

"What's inside?" he asked curiously, enraptured by the idea.

"Immortality."

Thranduil snorted. "I'm already immortal."

"You're demi-mortal," the man corrected, "Your kind can still be killed. I'm talking about true immortality, the kind the Valar think that they have cornered the market on." For a moment, he looked like he was going to say more on that, but he switched tacks, "Why were the gems so important to you?"

The answer of 'heirlooms of my people' sprang to mind, but before he could say so, doubt kicked in. Something was off about that answer. He knew that they were his by right, but he didn't know where that certainty had come from. He had seen the necklace in the box, had remembered his wife wearing them. Except that something was off. Where had he seen her wearing them? He could see it so clearly in his mind, and easily recognised her, but he didn't recognise the landscape they were standing in.

There was a quiet knock at the door, and the man raised a finger to his smiling lips, requesting silence. Ah, so that was why blatant gestures were important. He had no idea why silence was important, but it was as clear as a battlefield command what was required of him, without the complexity of words that could be misinterpreted. None of this fuzzy-world stuff where things you thought you understood perfectly a moment ago seemed to dissolve as soon as you reached for them, as if they had only ever been a mirage.

Elrond was the one to answer the door, allowing the servants to bring in a selection of wines, including some from the King's Personal Reserve. Thranduil watched it all with a sense of contented detachment, as if he were seeing his people with renewed sight. He noted their competence and quiet grace, and it brought him a sense of great peace and pride. If the servants were surprised to see their king so relaxed and at ease, to hear no complaints or further orders, they kept it to themselves, at least within his hearing. There was of course, too much wine - they had been expecting him to reject the vintages he did not require - but he saw no need to make his selection just yet, and they bowed themselves out when it became clear that he required nothing further.

The youngster was single-minded about needing a drink. After downing a gobletful of strong, cheap wine, and with a refilled, brimming goblet in hand, he returned to smiling at Thranduil openly. "Maybe Elrond should teach your healers how to brew Moonshine, if the right herbs can be grown here. In smaller doses, it takes the strain out of dealing with people, without messing with your thinking. There's another powder I use only on rare occasion, which Elrond says helps people to like me more, because I can act more like everyone else when I'm dosed on it. But I didn't like what it was doing to my head, so I stopped taking it. When he asked me why, asked me to describe what it did, he said that these things are normal and healthy. I disagreed. We argued."

"You shouted. Very loudly. I think all of Imladris heard you."

"I told you, it was messing with my head. I was having a bad reaction. A reaction you said was healthy. I don't think that having my mind infected with an idea such as it being a good thing to yell down a healer, is a sign of good health personally."

"Men often yell at each other." The half-elf pointed out.

"Try telling men that I'm one of them and see how far you get. They only have to look at me to know that I could not sire one of them."

"This," Thranduil interjected, "Sounds like something that you have both discussed before. At length." Receiving no contradiction, he continued, "I have a question which I would like answered please. Do you know who sired you?"

"I don't remember anyone who claimed to be my parents. Whether my mother or father are amongst those I remember, I do not know myself. Most of the people I remember are not of the race of men."

"Who do you remember?"

"A lot of people. Wizards, orcs, goblins, dwarves, elves, men, half-breeds, the descendants of half-breeds, skin-changers, ents, trolls, members of races who didn't speak Westron - and therefore I don't know what they called themselves - dragons, wargs, horses, some overgrown rabbits, assorted wildlife, a few undead, some really big bees, a really, really big eagle, a pack of large wolves, someone I think might have been a dryad but she wouldn't tell me, a few people who've wanted me dead - such as the biggest spider I have ever seen - I can't seem to get along with spiders, they're always hunting for more food-"

"You 'got along' with everyone else you named?" Thranduil interrupted incredulously.

"I never claimed that they all 'liked' me. Even elves don't tend to 'like' me. But most of the people I remember weren't Mordor-bent on wanting me dead. Even in Mordor."

Thranduil met Elrond's gaze over the shoulder of the young man busy emptying his second goblet. Silently, Elrond gestured to 'keep him talking'.

"You called them all people. Animals, undead, even the spider."

"What else would I call them? A skin-changer once told me, 'it takes all sorts of people to make a world'. He never said that if they weren't nice, or the same shape, or capable of talking, that they weren't still people regardless. I'm not sure about trees though. Trees aren't people until people make them into people. I think that they might be insulted to be considered 'people' since they were here long before people. One might as well call the stars people. They are Other. It wouldn't BE a world if there were no trees, no stars, but I'm not sure that they 'make a world' the way people do. So plants aren't people, but that doesn't mean that they are less important, only that they aren't people. And fish aren't people either, but they might be more important than people-" He drained his goblet and wandered off for a refill.

Elrond caught Thranduil's gaze and raised an eyebrow. "Did you follow all of that?"

Thranduil leaned back and closed his eyes, considering this, "I'm still trying to work out why fish are more important than people." he concluded.

"Then it only remains to be seen whether it still makes sense to you when you are sober."

The youngster snorted. Affecting the manner of a courtly fool, he pronounced, "A king should nevvah be sober. How would one not go absolutely stark-raving mad?"

"I believe that I could drink to that," Thranduil agreed, rising to collect a more expensive vintage for himself. He was halfway back to his seat before he noticed that he had had no trouble getting out of the chair.

The lad was watching him closely. "What was that Elrond, thirty seconds maybe?"

"Was what thirty seconds?"

"The lag-time."

"You are speaking to me in riddles."

Thranduil sighed, "No Elrond, he is simply paying attention to different things than you. Now why is this 'lag-time' important?"

"It's important because it's directly related to your abilities as a warrior, among other things. But its significance to a warrior is the easiest to explain: It is directly related to how likely you are to escape, or inflict, certain death; because it is a baseline of how long it takes for your head to override your heart. It is a measure of your self-belief, because it is how long it takes you to notice that you accomplished something that, logically, you shouldn't have been able to do. To be a superior warrior, you have to learn how to overlap lag-time with lead-time into a continuous stream, so that there are no breaks in the flow. You can either focus that stream by putting a spin into it, or unfocus it by pulsing it."

"No, you've lost me now."

"Wait," Elrond intruded, "This sounds vaguely familiar." He pulled in on himself, searching for the memory. Eventually it dawned on him, "Meditation exercises?"

With a vague gesture in Elrond's direction, the lad returned to explaining to Thranduil "That is lead-time: How long it takes for the mind to be overridden by the heart. You know that you know something, but how long does it take for it to dawn on you? Inspiration dawns, thus doubt dusks. You can learn to weave them together to create deliberate patterns, or live in ignorance of the tangled web you are weaving. Elves do it instinctively, but instinct will only get you so far. The Valar weave inherently..." he trailed off, drained his goblet again and went back for more wine.

Elrond watched this behaviour warily, "That's not water you are drinking."

"It's not ice-wine either. Don't mother-hen a duckling." he paused, staring into space. "I apologise, I forgot to ask the servants for a non-alcoholic drink for you. The children's wine isn't terrible, if you are set on remaining sober. It's certainly not potent enough to form more than the most inferior tincture. Not recommended before battle, but unless you are planning to go out hunting spiders, it shouldn't noticeably affect you."

Vaguely, Thranduil was aware that he would normally be worried about having neglected his guest's needs, even though technically he was a guest himself. Something puzzled him though, and he asked the Elflord, "Why didn't you ask the servants yourself?"

Elrond looked at him as if he had grown a second head. "Please tell me that was your attempt at humour."

"But you were the only one of us that could have asked."

"He means," the youngster clarified for his scandalised guest, "That as a healer, you knew that you were clear-headed and that we weren't. You let them in yourself. Why therefore did you not continue in that vein and ask for them to bring you whatever additional items you felt appropriate?"

"Because I am not part of this kingdom, I am an unwelcome guest in it." he snapped, his patience wearing thin.

Thranduil was on his feet and across the room before he noticed the alarm in Elrond's eyes, but in that moment he could not comprehend it. Thirty seconds. It took him a full half minute to realise that Elrond had thought himself attacked, despite knowing that he was dosed to the gills on Moonshine. By that point however, he was on the floor, bleeding, staring up at truly terrified elf. He really hadn't meant to scare him like that. He held out his hand, as if to be helped to his feet, "I'm sorry." Yet this seemed only to scare him more.

It was Elrond's ward who offered to take his hand, bracing him as he stood. "Apology accepted on behalf of Imladris, since no-one but you got hurt. And offered in turn, on its behalf, for having an idiot in charge. Do you accept, or would you prefer to host him in your dungeons until he dies of shame?"

"That depends. Do you believe that this would make him feel more, or less welcome here?"

"I'm sure a daily, personal visit from the king would make him feel most welcome. As would a steady diet of ice-wine and Moonshine-lembas."

Thranduil turned his back on Elrond then. "There will be no retaliation from Imladris?"

The man sneered, "Fire cannot kill a dragon."

Thranduil nodded in acknowledgement and raised his voice, "Guards!"

It is sometimes said of the woodland elves, that they are less wise than their western kin. They did not question why they were being summoned to the guest quarters. Seeing their king covered in blood, they did not question his right to tell them, "You will remove Lord Elrond to the dungeons, immediately." Nor did they feel any need to be particularly gentle with the disgraced diplomat, who was near catatonic with shock.

Once they were out of range of his hearing, Thranduil allowed himself to visibly relax. "You do realise that this is the second death-blow you have dealt him in one day."

"The first one obviously didn't take."

"Not in him, perhaps."

"By the way, what actually was going through your head when you leapt to your feet?"

"Honestly I have no idea. I only know that the idea that he had reason to fear me made no sense."

"My entire life in a nutshell. I've spent most of it attempting to unravel why people fear me, and it still makes no sense. They tell me it is because I am different, but they cannot tell me why that is so scary to them and thus, though they may not 'like' me, they cannot justify killing me. I'm sorry that the goblin-king was slain, he was one of the few people who really liked me. Sometimes I wonder if he will remember me, if I ever see him again. The goblin lifecycle is the most fascinating thing I have ever come across."

Thranduil smiled, "Where they equally fascinated with you?"

"They were ... welcoming, in their own way. They definitely made an effort not to get me killed, and more goblins have been willing to talk to me, than elves. What did fascinate them was my teeth. I traded blood for rights among them, so they were a lot more open about their ways and beliefs because of that."

"Dare I ask what they found so special about your teeth?"

"I could not guess, what you would dare at this point. My Lord of Imladris; he can be so chary at times that it's a wonder to me that his joints don't creak when he moves. Honestly, I long suspected that you would be even more treeish about things, this being a proper forest. But perhaps my lord is more like his river than the water in it; slow to change course because the bedrock must first be worn down before anything can change. Trees by comparison, have more agency over their personal shape, change dramatically with the seasons and naturally cooperate with each other to survive."

"Much as I appreciate the compliment, you completely sidestepped my question."

The man grimaced, "Moonshine ruins my focus. What was the question about?"

"Teeth, and goblins."

"Ah yes. Well, I don't know how far back, but I definitely have a skin-changer among my forebears. The only thing I can change as yet, however, is my teeth. The more highly a culture values threat-displays, the more credit my party-trick can buy me. But goblins value mutation and deviation for their own sake. According to their own version of their history, individuals such as myself were the ancestors of their race. Therefore, from their perspective, I am a inherently goblinic and thus, a distant cousin to them at worst. Which, in and of itself, is as disturbing as the myth that orcs were elves once - which incidentally, is not the way that a goblin would say it. It might be equally misspoken that the Dúnedain 'were elves once'. Having a distant ancestor of a specific race makes you merely a distant descendent of that race. They claim as much of themselves."

"Do I get the honour of witnessing such a transformation first-hand?"

"A dubious honour. One I'm not certain if it's even possible to tender whilst dosed on Moonshine. Nor one you would care to witness, even in a similar state. Although, as you can mock-fight and play-threat sufficiently convincingly to have a foreign dignitary imprisoned on a whim over an imagined slight, then theoretically one can play-threat on a much deeper, more visceral level. Skin-changing is a very primal affair, very vitalistic; Moonshine is supposed to drain that type of energy and render one incapable of being a threat to anyone, upto and including oneself. I am as equally amazed as my Lord of Imladris at your ability to overcome such limitations, though perhaps, naïvety as well as ignorance, may be bliss. The fact that you cannot remember your intention, implies that such an action would be so foreign to your normal routines of thought, that it is as yet impossible to recall the details. The habit of utter faith in such leaps of intuitive action however, tell me just how deadly you must be on the battlefield. Moonshine may only be made under the light of certain moons, in order to manifest, distill, align and reinforce the hidden qualities of the ingredients from their baser properties. It is not something that can be brewed in malice or bigotry, for that would reinforce these patterns of behaviour in the imbiber. It was originally intended to be used at peace talks, but the original records end with an impassioned plea that it should never be used for this purpose, instead to be strictly reserved for use in more private settings by those who became violent towards their close kin through grief. One can only guess at what effects were witnessed, to prompt such an injunction."

"A tendency to wander off-topic perhaps?"

"Indeed. Remind me again?"

"Your ability to skin-change at this point in time."

"Why would you want me to threaten you?"

"I desire to see you as the king of the goblins saw you."

"In which sense?"

"In the sense of wishing to see your hidden qualities. You speak so highly of their ability to accept you for your true nature, but you do not believe me capable of the same? Why? Because I am merely an elf? Merely a high-born Sindar governing Silvans? Because I prefer to keep within my own borders rather seek out conflict? Because I am judged as unwise, inferior in my ability to understand what is in the best interests of my people? By what yardstick do you dismiss me so easily?"

The young man eyed him thoughtfully, then smiled and raised his chin, adopting the confident and dramatic tone of a martial-instructor eyeing a promising student, (speaking in statements of perceived-truth phrased as rhetorical questions, intended to communicate that absolute-confidence,) "You believe that I underestimate you? That your reputation for intolerance is undeserved? That you possess the ability to value that which is unakin to your own nature? That you possess the ability see beyond the boundaries of your own experiences and rise to the challenge of overcoming that which limits your abilities; your basest fear of the unknown? You truly believe that you could stand firm and unflinching before the jaws of death itself and bare your throat, rather than lash out in base instinct? Overcome centuries of ingrained reflex to survive by brute force and transcend to the next level of manifesting that which the First Born where always intended to become; everything that is theirs to claim by sheer birthright, by Eru Ilúvatar's patronage above all lesser forces? By his Undying Light within all Eldar at their core, regardless of to whom they were born, regardless of their deeds in life or the measure of their years? You truly feel honoured to be born Eldar? One whose fëa-lírë so pleased and inspired the Allfather that he blessed it to be never-ending and from which all other soul-songs are derived in homage? You truly believe that you can do better than the half-blood in your dungeons, whose hroafelmë are so strengthened by the blood of men that they can override the purity of impulses derived from the soul, rather than the mere body. You can dig deep to root yourself against the storm, draw upon the pliancy of youth to yield before forces that would otherwise harm you, where his ancient frame cracks under the pressure of an unexpected gust from a cross-wind? Or are you as easily overawed by empty threats as he? Is there anything left to you in this world that is important enough to you, that you could ignore your baser instincts and remain untouched in the face of the open provocation? If I were to show you my teeth, if I were to go for your throat, could you resist the impulse to strike, knowing full well that as doped up on Moonshine as I am, it would be nothing but a feint to test your nerve?"

"Easily."

"Then face me down, King Thranduil! As the rightful and worthy Heir to the Throne of Eyrn Galen! And I will show you more than I showed even to His Malevolence - may The Darkness itself spit him back out again in sheer revulsion and refusal to swallow - the only one freakish enough to dare to call me his kinsman, the only person I have ever met brave enough to call me his friend and actually mean it!"

The transformation was more extreme than he had expected, the man's teeth being the last thing to change. He had initially thought the rallying-speech overly long - his father would have called it overcooked, for the peak of fervour had passed and contempt had begun to grown up in its place. Now he was glad of it, as the hairs rose on the back of his neck; for what his soul had sensed at first-sight whilst it remained hidden from his eyes - save for the tell of the man's golden irises - was now slowly revealed before him in its full glory, like a Fellbeast unfurling its wings for flight.

Shadows in the corners of the room grew deeper as the man stepped back, lazily assuming a fighting stance. There was a predatory grace in that movement that seeded a growing aura of hidden prowess and deadly intent; the air around him shimmered and seemed to boil and chill simultaneously in reaction. Those bright, yellow eyes took on a hint of blood-red as his features became fierce. The mane of raven-black hair took on the opalescent of a starling's wing, and he fancied that right at the edge of his hearing - maybe not even a physical sound - he could hear the answering calls of thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of tiny birds eager to darken the skies with their wings, a deadly cloud of living arrows poised to mob him and peck out his eyes. To that was added an aggressive hum of millions of wasps, and the buzz and chitter of the countless other bugs that dwelt nearby. Only then did the man bare his teeth in an audible feral snarl that seemed to come, not only from his throat, but as the rumbling of thousands of predators. His canines lengthened, the rest his teeth sharpening. Thranduil's eyes warred with the eyes of his soul to resolve the hazy double-image of mannish-jaw and animal-muzzle, normal finger-nails and sharp claws, attempting to bring them into focus as a united-whole. This was certainly no mere man; for seeing him now, he could be a first-generation cross between a Skin-changer and the Istari.

The snarl slowly escalated in threat-level: Each time he succeeded in holding his nerve and relaxing his body, it voiced a higher level of competitive threat, as if challenging him for leadership in these lands. Rising above his primal fears, Thranduil found himself actually enjoying this new game. Rising to the challenge, he drew upon his own connection to the land, its quietness, its peace and its gentle ways. And there he faltered for the first time, for he could feel the sickness and stagnation of his woodland as-one with his scarred fëa and drugged hroa. The fuzzy horde of his challenger began to slowly stalk towards him in open accusation, pausing to demand an explanation for his neglect, threatening to strike him down and maim him for his inferior leadership. Yet in those reddened eyes something more than accusation and power, and it was not pity: It was the passion of zealous camaraderie, a fire-storm that promised both death and life; a green-dragon of rebirth whose breath could melt the thickest ice of winter, consuming the dead mast and transforming it into new growth.

Shining through those golden eyes, he saw the red-raw power of unbridled life. In that firey gaze he saw Melkor-as-Ainur, and finally comprehended that his Silvan's ancestors were not lesser for having failed to travel westwards, but intuitively wiser for not following where the Valar had led; for not having fallen prey to the temptations of a false promise, a false premise. He understood that he had never been wrong to subconsciously resist joining with the forces of Light to wage war on Darkness, but instead could proudly stand to one side as a champion of a third force, as the Eldar were first conceived to become; immortal through death.

He watched the crouch deepen before the leap, and raised his chin; a deep sense of pride and peace united in his willingness to bare his throat in regal defiance of the Dragon of Life-giving Death. His scars, once so hideous to his eyes, surfaced painlessly to be offered up in both sacrifice and as enduring mark of honour. He caught the shoulders of his challenger as the man flung himself with unnerving accuracy for his throat; not to restrain him, sharp teeth a bare inch from his throat, but to steady him in his abortive leap of feint. He he changed his grip to the hair of his challenger, and drew those gaping jaws to his throat, tilting his head to more easily allow it. The sharp prickle of those teeth against the sensitive skin of his neck was more intoxicating than anything else he had ever experienced. They buzzed with rumble of the many-chested growl as hot, wet breath swirled against his throat. The rush of heightened awareness as those teeth dared to press into his soft flesh, was more heady than any frantic combat he had ever engaged in. And the surge of energy-transference as those jaws settled to gripping him, like a deer being suffocated by the wolf at its throat, surpassed the very begetting of his son, as their collective souls merged.

He was at-one with the forest: As the scars of his wounded soul healed in the nearness of death, so the forest found new vigor and wakefulness. He slowly released his grip on those things he had struggled to maintain in life against the passage of time, and watched in awe as all things found new balance, drawing him deeper into the land as they did so: As he released, so all responded by binding him closer. The sensation of blood trickling down his elven neck was drowned out by the sensation of being the entire forest and everyone within it. Everyone, including the giant spiders, who raised their raucous voices in jubilation as they were accepted into the whole, as they were assigned new meaning and purpose for their lives.

Yet here clarity began to wane as he fell away, darkness withdrawing to the south and the west, leaving him blinking in the north-eastern light of a mid-summer dawn. His consciousness refocused, anchored, and he rediscovered life. The pressure on his throat released and he drew his first breath, opening his eyes for the first time to see bright, rainbow lights filling the air, like diamond dust-motes catching the sun.

They faded away, and the room was as it was before they began. Despite the sticky sensation of his blood-soaked collar, there was no pain. He released the man and stepped back, allowing him to spot the last trace of red disappearing from that golden gaze and note the blood-soaked beard.

That amber-gaze dropped to his throat, "You have a new set of scars, my King." and finally that voice held respect for him - a more sweet victory than any in his former life. Tender fingers brushed his throat, "I did not know that would happen."

"Which part?" he asked softly, still filled with wonder.

"Subconsciously I cannot say. Consciously, nothing beyond the desire to play a game of Yield. It's a warg-cub thing; how they discover who is worthy to ride them. A lot of orcs get their throats ripped out by failing to hold their nerve.

"The rest of it, seemed to come from someone else, some deeper pattern I got caught up in. It was my voice, but the right words just came to me out of nowhere. I think I, that we, hit a Node. That is, a Chord in the Eternal Symphony. I'm not sure what that will change. I felt it affect my Lord Elrond; felt him within the Forest as he experienced a foresight. But I could not see what he saw, before I found myself watching a mid-winter sunset without you. Did you see?"

"I saw only spiders celebrating, and then a perfect mid-summer dawn. I thought I was dead."

"You thought me so clumsy that I could kill you?"

"I do not know. I was ready to die. Ready to let you take the forest, my people, away from me. You seemed to know what was needful better than I."

The man stepped forward and caught him up in a close embrace. "I saw the land choose you as its rightful King." he whispered softly, "I saw it make you part of it. You do not belong to Aman, for this land has claimed you for its own. You are a Trueborn King now, not your father's son."

Thranduil replied, equally softly, "I saw the Dark Lord in your eyes, and I was not afraid."

"Then the Trees have chosen their King wisely." He stepped back, taking in the Elvenking. "You are more than People now. And so you need to start thinking about fish."

Thranduil queried, utterly at sea, "Thinking about fish?" 'Thinking what about fish? What did fish have to do with anything?'

And the man burst out laughing, ending the mood of the previous moment entirely.


	3. Go Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playing poker with a tarot deck means that there are a lot more court cards to get your head around than in a standard deck.
> 
> Thranduil's hand is a lot more interesting now, but what hole-cards is Elrond holding, and how do they combine with the community cards that are in play already?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is turning out to be much more than a mere stray thread to pick at. More like tugging on it is unravelling the fabric of the entire knitwear. No idea how far it could go at this point, but it's certainly the most promising premise I have ever worked with. And readers are perfectly entitled to object to my OC as the Frodo-substitute he shows glimmers of having the potential to become.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Ainu: (singular) a heavenly chorister from before the beginning of physical creation  
> Vala: (singular) one of the Valar (pl.) - 'angels' aligned with the forces of Light
> 
> Dol Guldur: the breeding ground of giant spiders in southern Mirkwood  
> Eryn Galen: the Greenwood, originally called Greenwood the Great; dubbed, in the days of 'The Hobbit' by the local woodsmen, as Mirkwood  
> Imladris: Rivendell  
> Valinor: the dwelling place of the Valar and those elves who crossed the Western Ocean to join them in the Undying Lands of the western continent of Aman
> 
> Quenya: Elvish latin  
> Tengwar: the elvish alphabet  
> Westron: the lingua franca of wider Middle-Earth
> 
> elleth, elvish, a female elf  
> hroa, elvish, the physical body as opposed to the soul
> 
> Honeydust: A headcanon pharmaceutical manufactured in Rivendell that increases confidence in one's ability to integrate into the immediate community  
> Moonshine: A headcanon pharmaceutical manufactured in Rivendell that reduces resistance to new ideas and encourages emotional reconciliation, officially forbidden for use in the political arena and used only for those who become violent alcoholics through grief  
> People: defined as all races and animals, regardless of alignment, whose creation was inspired by the conception of elves, by the entirety of the heavenly choir
> 
> Tolkien's Theology:  
> The Ainurlindalë: The song of creation sung by the heavenly choir, used as a blueprint for physical creation  
> Melkor: The lead chorister of the heavenly choir  
> Morgoth: The 'fallen angel' Melkor later became known as  
> The Trees: A key component of the early creation story, arising long before the First-born (elves) appeared in the world

"Fish, my King, fish." he laughed. "Have you ever seen a spawning run?"

"Of course. We had to design the east bridge so as to not prevent their passing."

"Do they still run through here?"

"Well of course they d-..."

He gave his King a sad smile, "When do you last remember a run?"

"I don't remember the guards commenting on the event in recent years. Drunken gossip however, is not the most reliable source of information."

"And what affect would it have on the local ecology, if the fish stopped coming?"

"I suppose that the predators which hibernate would find it harder to get enough food to make it through the winter."

"When did you last hear of a bear in the woods?"

"The spiders have wiped out a lot of the larger animals."

"No my King, you did that, though you did not mean to. The spiders were created because the forest was getting unbalanced, due to the lack of top predators. Too few predators allows other species to breed unchecked, wiping out other species with their strip-grazing. The less variety of diet, the more problems are created. But that's only the blatant stuff. Giant-spiders can step in to fill the top-predator slot, and quite honestly, they don't care about being hunted. They eat their own young if nothing else keeps their numbers down, and happily eat their own dead. The trees aren't that fond of giant-spiders, and wouldn't normally tolerate them. But the trees got sick, and so everything else started getting sick, and so the clean-up squad was sent in, in response.

"The forest is dying. My Lord Elrond can feel it and it makes him feel like he must intervene somehow before your people get sick too. What else would you expect of a healer with Foresight? But he's a Valley-lord; he doesn't understand Forests, and thus he relies too much on Foresight to guide his actions. He isn't interested in what started it all, he's too busy trying to avoid the next disaster. He feels like the only warrior-healer on the battle-field, forced to choose between saving the lives of the dying, and joining the fight to save lives by being a better killer than those who would have been fighting whilst he was tending the dying. He honestly wants what is best for your people, but where he is here to say 'Go West', I'm here to say 'Go Fish'.

"But the sheer number of stupid rules in these lordly games mean that he doesn't have time to listen to me these days. He's too busy talking with his entourage to pay attention. All the time, he is thinking about the future. He doesn't want to hear about the past, or about eastern cultures. I'm nothing but a 'colicky baby' in his eyes these days, and he has 'more urgent matters to attend to'. There are times when I could willingly go for HIS throat, when he calls me 'friend' whilst treating me like a brainless son of a man. That's why he struck you - you reminded him too much of me, whilst still being you. Me, he can easily defeat if I get violent. You, he's not so sure of. If you were to take him by surprise, then he might be dead, and then who would care about the future in his stead? He's wound so tight right now, that he is snappish; which stresses me, which winds him up even more. It's a vicious circle.

"When you helped yourself to my tincture by mistake, I hoped for a moment that I could get him 'shined before he realised that he wasn't already, but it didn't play out that way. I never told him about my deeper research into Moonshine, because it wouldn't have made a difference anyway - he's not the type of person that would take a powder for any other reason than its strictly prescribed use; not given free-choice in the matter. He's not in the least adventurous anymore, as much because his Foresights are draining all of the joy out of his life. Life in Middle-Earth is now an endless litany of foreseeable disasters in his eyes.

"When he came back from fighting the Enemy of Light at Dol Guldur, he started having nightmares. He changed. At first he would talk to me about them; ostensibly because he thought that it would help me to understand the world better, but I think that he truly wanted a friend back then. Then Shatterbrain here had to go and stick my foot in my mouth, by asking if he saw me anywhere in his Foresights. He said no, and I believe that he spoke the truth, but he never spoke to me about his Foresights again. When I researched Foresight more heavily, I found a reason for his silence. Or rather, I found the empty space where the reason should be. There is nothing about looking into a specific person's future and seeing nothing, not even in his personal library. That was the in-joke earlier, about not taking things without asking first. My idea of humour, when I need to dose but can't, gets a bit orcish."

And orcish he looked, covered in blood and with his Sauron-may-care attitude to what would normally be state-secrets. It was so liberating to hear an insider's perspective of why Elrond was here. He too, had got so caught up in the battle of wills, that he hadn't wanted to hear anything that didn't align with his need to overcome all opposition. This new game of Yield was far more fun. For too long had he been limited to his own conjectures of the thought-processes of others. He missed his father's advisors, but in truth, they could not have offered him such gems as this one could. A nameless wanderer, he had interacted with more cultures in his short life, and with more success, than any elf he had ever heard of. He had said that an elf on Moonshine could experience the world in a way that got them close to understanding the world as he normally saw it, but what the subtle differences were, he had yet to discover. 'Yet to discover'; now there was a phrase he wouldn't normally think. It filled him with a sense of wonder for the unknown that he hadn't felt since he was very young. The older he had become, the less he had seen things as if for the first time. He had become deadwood-bound by his own opinions, until his mind had ended up following the same pathways over and over, like leaves caught in an eddy. His fortress had become his prison, his stronghold choking in a too-tight grip of his own making. Moonshine had freed him from that pattern in the most dramatic manner possible, burning away years of mast in his mind. "How does Imladris name Moonshine?"

"In Quenya, Tiluisil; because of the blue tint. Why?"

"Because trade-agreements between elven realms are written in Tengwar. Using a Westron term would be glaringly inadequate for the task. You jest when you suggest that Lord Elrond could teach my healers how to make it - you might as well suggest that we forge legendary swords here. No, we shall need to trade with the West to meet our needs, for you are not in error to suggest that the gratitude of Eryn Galen can be so won. My people will need aid to rise to the challenges that lie ahead, for we are not mortals to bequeath our future to our children because death is certain. Silvans have never held that the Valar were their saviours. Yet if we are to save our home from our own ignorance, then we must learn this game of Yield more thoroughly than we have learnt either War and Politics. Also therefore, how do the goblins name their biggest settlement?"

"Translating from Westron, Orcost."

"You say that you have rights among them, that they have shared cultural insights with you. Would they accept you as a neutral third-party?"

"Perhaps. It depends on what you have in mind."

"At first, just to open a dialogue. One without all these courtly graces. If giant spiders have cause to rejoice in being as-one with us, then perhaps goblins might be the most willing of the other Dark races to officially deviate from their established ways, if only for the sake of novelty."

The man laughed, "I knew there had to be a reason for your new scars, but I was thinking much too small-scale by the sound of it. I can represent your interests as the Scarred King to both goblins and orcs, if you would be willing to meet their chosen representative also. Goblins will definitely be the easiest, but Yield is a warg game and thus, those scars increase the potential notoriety of both of us. But a note of caution; you cannot live your life dosed on Moonshine, any more than I could mine dosed on Honeydust. These are but crutches for the lame, not a censer for the devout. Allow these things to be but pipe-dreams for the moment; a wondrous adventure but not something that should be rushed into as if it must happen tomorrow. Yes, your confidence in this direction will wane as the drug wears off, but what is done is done. Don't fall into the same trap as I did, and set yourself up for a big fall. It is already a long way down from where you are now, you need not advance further until you have first retreated back to where you were when you awoke this morning. I have a feeling that those scars cannot be hidden, and who you were last night would already be overwhelmed by today's events so far. Yesterday you were thinking only about how important it was to conform to courtly graces and not offend anyone. You have wandered a very long way from that person. Do not give yourself cause for justifiable doubts by getting too far ahead of yourself. You have done an Ainu's work today, it is more than enough."

Thranduil considered this for a while, then said, "I disagree. Do not mistake your situation for mine. You've known only living on the fringes where acceptance is hard to come by, where you have to fight to be heard; whereas I am obeyed without question. Your own experiences limit your judgement in this, for you have never governed a large group of people. You are unused to thinking in these areas and thus you are cautious of how people will react to you if you let them see any dramatic change in your behaviour. You are inexperienced in the ways of large groups except for their grudging tolerance of you and therefore your are limited in accurately predicting positive outcomes based on first-hand experience."

"If I have difficulty predicting, then it is because I have seen too much of different cultures and get them mixed up. But in no culture that I have seen, have I seen a large group do anything but rebel against someone who suddenly changes to be unrecognisable. You are used to unthinking obedience, but not unthinking disobedience."

"You jest. You may not think much of our lordly games, but I assure you that I have dealt with many very-stubborn and very-stupid people who have no intention of obeying me. If only because it would BE obeying me."

"And according to your reputation, they have yielded only because your people are united behind you. Disobeying the will of a united people, is very different to facing a people who would slip a knife between the ribs of their leader, given half a chance. What experience have you of open-rebellion within your own nation? Children who are under pressure from every side to conform to the way they are expected to behave? Who leave when they realise they cannot live within these rules anymore? It was not you that your son walked away from, but the Silvan nation who would have never accepted him as their king. It may not appear so; it is a grand illusion that every leader perpetuates that this is not so - Dark or Light - and fears to allow to become common knowledge; but the people are the ones with the power, not their leaders. Individuals rarely understand this because they recognise themselves in each other and not their leaders; but it is each other that are the true oppressing force and not the leader they love to hate. They blame the state of their nation upon their leaders and refuse to acknowledge that they are the true tyrant that is the target of their own hatred. People are people wherever you go, and a young child is in the same situation as a king, yoked by the expectations of those around them. It may appear that the leader is outrageously powerful, untouchable, but it is an illusion. And you are in a very precarious position right now my King. Yet, you are in a better position than anyone else in Middle-Earth, for you are in an established and entrenched position of neutrality. You can see a third-opinion to choosing a side. But as yet your people feel impotent, and like an irascible patient, their need to rebel against feeling powerless makes them prone to unthinking violence against other people. Do not let this new accolade go to your head and make you believe that you can change the world overnight by putting a cat amongst the pigeons, because you are drunk on the heady brew of feeling all that raw power. People make a world, but there wouldn't BE a world without the stars and the trees. And your trees are sick because people think that people are more important than fish."

"Again with the fish. I don't understand how the fish fit into this."

"Please, my king I beg you, ignore the distractions of people for now. Let someone else worry about the fate of the goblins and the orcs and the spiders, for they have their own champions. None of these chose you as their king. Your Silvans accept you as their king, but only for as long as you don't scare them by changing the wrong things. And many things are only wrong to change, because it is too soon to change them. If you wish to sing a new chorus, then you have to sing a bridge first; and you must first finish the verse you are in before you start even that. The Ainurlindalë is a massive demi-harmony that was led by Melkor, not Morgoth. Morgoth is but a shadow of what Melkor was, which none of his brothers and sisters could understand. A Darkness defined not by Melkor, but by every other singer as a force they came to hate and reject without understanding why they were doing so. Without understanding what they were getting wrong and thus they blamed him for leading them the wrong way. They thought people were the most important thing."

"And he thought fish were?" 

"No, you pointy-eared kingling," the man laughed. "The Trees alone know what he understood to be important, for they were the Trueborn from before the first Discord. But the Trees, for their own reasons, judge Fish as more important than People. As Chosen King of the Trueborn, their Plenipotentiary amongst mere People, you must now come to understand this too, for it is not just me saying it. They have bound you to them more surely than your Silvans ever have, and believe me, you don't want to piss-off the Trees."

"Why do you not just tell me why fish are important?"

"Because if you still have to ask, you aren't yet ready to know anything more."

"What in Mordor's name is that supposed to mean?"

"Bluntly? It means that I'm doing all the bloody talking and you're just standing there waiting for it to be handed to you on a silver platter like a battlefield command. The Trees chose a strong warrior as their champion, not an obedient soldier. I'm not driving you to work with nothing, I'm inviting you to grow and learn through playing."

Thranduil drifted away, moving towards the window. It was not a window intended to frame a beautiful vista, it was there to let in light and air. But the feel of sunlight against his skin as he sat in the window seat was calming. The fresher air, soothing. He allowed his mind to wander, encouraging thoughts to come to him instead of demanding answers from his host. "I know that the forest is sick. For a long time I thought it was because I was alone. The more people I lost, the worse things seemed to become. I had no-one to turn to, to ask what I was doing wrong. The only solution that was ever on offer, was to turn to the Valar. But the only answer they offered was to withdraw from the wider world into everlasting isolation. In many ways I have inflicted this upon myself and my people even without heavy-handed interference. I have fought to protect and defend that which is mine, because I am forever losing more and more no matter what I do. No matter how careful or careless I am, all that changes is how quickly I am losing everything. I thought that the Forest mirrored me, but perhaps I am the mirror of my Forest. I do not want to flee from what I do not understand, I wish to be respected and listened to. I try to respect and listen to others, but they talk only of things which I have already considered and discarded. Until you. You talk about things that I have never considered, or talk about things that I have, in ways which would not occur to me alone. You, I desire to listen to; and were it not for my errors in judgment, I believe that I would never have had the opportunity to do so."

"If you had not made errors, then you would not be seeking someone to explain them to you. The Valar wish for the elves to come to them in Valinor. Why? Only because they had made an error they cannot even admit to themselves was an error on their part, and wished to shelter the First-born from the consequences of their discord. Yet in doing so they represent themselves as 'wise' and so elves seek to be 'wise' after their example, and are led into the same, fatal errors of perception. They seek to be more like the Valar, and stop being what elves were born to become in their own right."

Thranduil leaned into the window, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, soaking up the sunlight and the forest air. "If I were to ask you to stay with me, would you do so?" He listened to the footsteps approach, tracking the man's audible movements as he settled at the other end of the window-seat.

"Your people would not take kindly to my continued presence."

"Morgoth to what my people would take kindly to!"

"My King, I do not wish to wound you."

"But; what?"

"No buts. I will not be pushed into attempting to judge which is the lesser of two evils. Such habits lead to seeing and measuring only that which we stand to lose, not that which anyone stands to gain. I do not know if I will stay here, but I will not stay because you desire someone to explain to you what you got wrong. I will not so weaken you by reinforcing such a negative attitude to life."

"Then stay because you will be listened to here. Because you are needed here. You are not needed in Imladris."

"I am not wanted in Imladris. I am not wanted here." He did not react to the sudden movement, did not react to being grabbed and hauled to his feet by an elf that could kill him effortlessly. He did not react to the fierce look of pain, or the inarticulate confusion that replaced it. "Elrond was a fool to strike a child. You do not know how to express your frustrated love towards another male. Your father never showed you how. You would run to him and latch onto his clothes, but you had no idea of what to say to him. You had never heard words that could express how you felt; not even from an elleth. I will not push you away, but you have to figure out what comes next for yourself; I must not help you. Not in this moment, for it would be a great disservice."

Thranduil was at a loss. It was true that no phrase that he had ever heard, no gesture he had ever seen amongst elves or men, even dwarves, could accurately express what he was attempting to convey. Abandoning reason, he went with impulse; with the only example he had experience of. He ducked his head under the man's chin to nip gently at the skin of his throat. The whiskers there felt strange again his skin, and he paused uncertain. A hand wove itself into the hair at the back of his head, but did not grip or exert pressure. Reassured that this was acceptable, he leaned in to gently bite. The hand behind his head exerted a gentle pressure, and thus encouraged, he stretched his jaw to encompass as much flesh as he could. There was no light-show, no need to make noise or attempt to transfer energy; it was but a token gesture, a means of communicating an idea he had no other way of expressing beyond grabbing.

The flesh between his teeth hummed as the man found words suited to his reply, "I will stay."

He released his grip but did not withdraw, resting instead, cheek-by-jowl in a primitive gesture of gratitude. Only when the hand was removed from his head, did he withdraw.

"Language is something that we invent to express ourselves. If we cannot express what is within us to others, then we are less than People. We make the world by expressing ourselves into it. That is our power at its core; the ability to share what is within us. When we cannot express ourselves, we cannot grow. But beyond this is the desire to consume the expressions of others. A childlike curiosity and desire for the unknown, a drive to consume something intangible, to fuel our ability to express in turn, and have our expressions consumed in their turn. This is how the world is made. And how it is consumed and remade anew. This is the overall theme of the Ainurlindalë: It is not merely a battle between Light and Darkness, it is a symphony of perpetual recreation overwhelming stagnation. Of inspiration, transformation, innovation; deviations, mutations and glorious abominations. It is Creation twinned with Eternity; and it is all beautiful because it is all ugly. It is obedience through rebellion, capitulation through defiance, and Life through Death. Tell me, my King, what do Trees eat?"

"Fish?"

"Dead fish, my King. The spawning run is the death of millions of fish, bringing new life to the land even as it seeds a new generation of its own. The Endless Bounty of the Sea throws itself upon the Land in the Hroa of Fish, in return for the shelter it offers the Spawn of Fish. The Trees shape the Land to slow down the water rushing to the Sea, creating havens of calmer waters. And People only make that cycle richer. Bears glut themselves on the fish until they can't be bothered to eat more than the richest flesh. The rest is abandoned on the forest floor, renewing the soil at some point regardless of what scavengers become intermediaries. It looks like trees can exist anywhere, but to understand how they can do this, one must look beyond the obvious. Trees are twinned with a species that is equally not-people; that exists only underground, connecting the roots of one tree to another like blood vessels. A spawning run in one river can feed an entire forest, but if the fish do not come, then the forest starves as one. Why they stopped coming is a long and involved saga in which elves played an unwitting role. It was not your people alone, but you made things a little worse without meaning to. More importantly, an elven nation is more than capable of Expressing everything needful to restore this forest if they so choose. If you choose to lead them to do so. The Trees like you because you and yours are skilled with organising such things." Thranduil pulled him close. "Yes, my King, I will stay and aid you to grow and learn. I will play this game with you, and Eyrn Galen will grow strong and green once again. I will stay until you are stronger in this than me, if that is your wish. I ask only one thing in return."

"Name it."

"Release my Lord of Imladris."

"I never intended not to."

"I know that, but he doesn't. And those new scars of yours are going to cause speculation anyway. Nobody but he as yet, knows what he saw in his Foresight. If you can root that out of him, I would be in your debt. Getting an Elflord like Elrond to play Yield is impossible for me to achieve alone. He's too busy playing the old game by the old rules."

"You enjoy winding him up don't you?"

"I enjoy having fun. And he's forgotten how to have fun. As a dwarf told me once, on the topic of fighting, 'If it isn't fun, then you're doing it wrong. If you can't enjoy being scared, then your fear will kill you long before your enemy finishes you off.' "

"Is there any race you don't like?"

"I aspire to like everyone. How can anyone truly want to make a world, if they don't want to like everyone in it?"

"Most people do it by killing the people they don't like and calling it a better world."

"And who came up with that bright idea?"

"Probably a vala."

"Probably a good thing that I don't have my heart set on returning to Imladris. The easiest way not to get killed is not to be in the same place as people who actively want you dead. Light-siders can even more bloodthirsty than Dark-siders: Dark-siders often kill each other, without claiming that it was about whose side you were on. Light-siders, if they truly want to kill you, then you must be a Dark follower. But if you speak well of the Dark, or ill of the Light, then they are required to want you dead."

"Ironic, that one who speaks well of others can so easily consider themselves a natural enemy of Light."

"A town set on fire is filled with light even on the darkest night. Yet, without the rotting bodies of the dead, the Forest dies."

"Where did I go wrong?"

"When you put People first, like everyone else does. Nothing more and nothing less. Same as my Lord of Imladris. Same as the Valar. Same as Morgoth. Same as me dosed on Honeydust. But Moonshine is only a crutch, not a solution. All Eldar are begotten with an inherent love for the stars and the trees. Other races have other inherent loves for non-people."

"And what were you begotten to love?"

"His Malevolence was right to call me goblinic. My love is for diversity. I love things which are different from me. But that causes me problems of its own, which is why I dose so much. In a world where People love People who are like them, I cannot Express. Accidentally dosed on Moonshine, you like me. When it wears off, that may no longer be true. It is challenging for me to form friendships, because that requires people to be alike to me. They stop being themselves or require me to do so, in order to be alike, and my love is for that which is unlike myself."

"You have no love for yourself?"

"I dose to process how I feel about myself. It does not come naturally for me to do so yet. I can get ... emotionally constipated. My mind can become like a river with nothing to slow the flow; a world without trees. Lots of flashfloods and dry beds and stagnant poolings behind temporary dams. I'm not integral to any system. I think that's why Elrond cannot Foresee through me. I don't belong anywhere because I cannot truly connect with People except in passing. I cannot see where I have gone wrong."

"Then don't try to use words to express it."

The man blinked and looked at him anew. That golden-gaze made him shiver in anticipation of the unknown. The man stepped closer, a hand rising to brush the new scarring on his throat, a look of reverence in his eyes as he gazed upon the permanent marks left by his own teeth.

Thranduil shifted his weight to subtly press into that pressure. "I won't resist. As you told me, some things need to be discovered for yourself." The gaze rose to meet his own, but the mind behind them was too unusual to anticipate. Gentle fingers rose to touch the dried blood on his face, skimming lightly over bruises from being struck heavily across the face. Bruises which he did not realise he had until they were touched. He must look a mess; covered in newly-scabbed scratches and bruises. The Moonshine had obviously dulled his sense of self-preservation to the point where he had not even considered his injuries. Surprise, and the lowered inhibition to new ways of thinking, had done the rest. The gaze roamed his face but, as his own experiences proved, 'normal' reactions were probably the least things going on in that head. Fingers tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, brushing the lobe lightly in passing. He twitched at that; he did not have the inhibitions necessary not to right now. The gaze locked with his own again as the reaction was noted, and a chill of anticipation made him shiver again. Elven ears could be extremely sensitive at times, but in a culture where social interaction rarely included tactile contact, it would never normally be an issue. He quickly calculated where the moon was in its monthly cycle, and swallowed nervously. This could get rather interesting.

Curiosity burned in that gaze, but he said nothing. The man raised his other hand to cup the opposite side of his face, steadying him as a single finger gently brushed his lobe again, exploring the sensitivity of the area. Thranduil gratefully pressed into the pressure of that supporting hand; for it was impossible to keep still. His own hands rose to the man's shoulders, gripping the fabric there tightly to suppress the urge to step away. He could not decide if he would describe the sensation as pleasant or not, merely impossible to endure whilst remaining perfectly still. Squirming away from a particularly feather-like touch he pleaded, "Not so light!" A firmer touch erased the itchy tingling and he leaned into it with relief. "I think I may now understand why people don't like you."

The man stepped back, "Please expand on that."

"You present yourself as a perpetual child, easily bored by what you have already seen and done. You are fascinated by things which intrinsically you cannot experience, rejecting the mundane and commonplace. You desire constant excitement, regardless of whether it causes discomfort to others. You seek someone to challenge you, someone who can give you a good reasons to conform. People don't like you, are afraid of you, because they are not strong enough to tame you. You are constantly pushing the boundaries with every authority figure you encounter. You are always trying to pick a fight with someone, anyone; anyone who believes themselves a match for you. If you believed that you could get there, you would probably sail to Valinor and see if you could make the Valar themselves yield before you. I don't doubt that you believe that you have the right to do so. That scares people. You wear your heart on your sleeve like an innocent and enthusiastic child who wants only to learn everything as fast as possible, and yet you speak like no tangible authority figure could possibly know better than you anymore. I don't know what lies ahead of you in this life; maybe taking afternoon tea with the Dark Lord himself and discussing why people don't like him very much.

"You see; you don't even flinch at that possibility. You don't believe yourself unequal to that task; you would consider it a moral obligation to attempt it. And on top of that you don't actually believe yourself any better than anyone else. What kind of creature believes that fish are more important than they are, and yet would willingly, eagerly maybe, seek out the Lord of all Darkness for a quiet chat about life, the world, and everything in it? That is a very special type of insanity you have there. How could anyone possibly believe that they could be alike to you? And yet you wander amongst them, wondering what everyone is making such a fuss about? Worrying what you are getting wrong and why people can't feel comfortable around you? How are they supposed to react to someone who doubts themselves so completely, simply because other people get nervous around them, and yet believes in themselves so absolutely, at the same time? A waif who doesn't even have a name - let alone any friends - would aspire to treat a genocidal maniac from the dawn of time - one that not even the Valar feel capable reasoning with - better than most people manage to treat their closest friends?"

The man shrugged.

"Exactly. If you cannot innately grasp why they believe it unthinkable - things that are intuitive to them, tiny things that they believe themselves to be - then how could you possibly understand someone like the Dark Lord well enough to befriend him? That's rhetorical, by the way; I don't need an answer. It's how they think, regardless of what you believe it to be possible and why. They think of People as a hierarchy of lesser and greater than them. They work out where they belong within it, and that deduction makes them feel like they understand how the whole world works; defines what they can and cannot do in this life and therefore defines them. They now know who they are and what they can do. But you? You don't understand that. You refuse to accept that. You actively reject that, as a way of defining the world and yourself within it. How could anyone ever 'like' you? You don't exist in their version of the world to be 'likable' or otherwise.

"It's like with horses. For the sake of simplicity: Horses think of the world as being all about horses. If you aren't 'horse', you don't exist in their world. Therefore you are either 'predator', or an irrelevant part of the landscape. It's not quite that simplistic, but that's not relevant. A horse will always think that horses are the most important thing. No-one can like you, because you refuse to put People first. Therefore there is no way that you can put them, as an individual, first. What makes people 'like' other people, is being made to feel like they are the most important thing to another person. That's the way their world works. Anyone who doesn't believe the same, is intrinsically un-liking of them. You just don't care if people like you, you don't need them to. You need them not to kill you and to not be alike to you. Most people only feel safe that no-one will kill them because other people like them: 'I like you, therefore I will spare your life', is what they use in place of whatever you use instead."

" 'Love of diversity'." he interjected absently. " 'You're different, therefore the world would be a poorer place without you in it.' "

His breath hitched as those words hit a deeper chord in him than he expected. What was true procreative love, if it was not this? Seeing something different from oneself and being drawn to it; desiring to preserve its uniqueness and furthermore, desiring to combine that with one's own and create something entirely new? What was grief but the mourning of something truly unique that had been lost forever? What was the desire to be valued by others, save for the desire to have one's own uniqueness recognised by others and furthermore, ratified by their judgment that you are compatible enough with their own uniqueness, to create something completely new? Without these things, love could be defined as merely a recognition of self and a desire to have self perpetuated. Any animal could recognise its own species in order to breed, thus preserving itself against loss, through sameness. Any animal could recognise the value of something non-self and in so doing, recognise it to consume it into itself for its own self-perpetuation, destroying that instance of it in so doing. Any mortal, thinking creature could recognise the need not to genocide something that was vital to the continued preservation of self; could desire to be so recognised in turn so as to be selfishly preserved by others. This 'love of difference' however, was distinct from all other forms. Under too much pressure, under threat of extinction, it would by necessity draw upon baser instincts. It would fight to protect the survival of the most valuable non-self. It would interbreed to preserve that uniqueness against loss - regardless of the resulting damage, regardless of the dangers of inbreeding - in goblinic mutation and deviation from the norm. It would corrupt itself in self-sacrifice in order to bridge the gulf between idealism and complete annihilation of all that was truly valuable: Fish would die in their millions, offering up their rotting corpses to the Trees, to bridge the unabridged gulf between Land and Sea.

In his cultural distrust of the Valar, he had avoided all thoughts of the West. He had abandoned the Elven love of the Sea, for fear that it would carry him to a place of entrapment, never to return. Within his mind he had genocided the Western Ocean and all that lay beyond it. And in so doing, he had desecrated the needful sacrifice of Fish. Eyes alight with new understanding, he declared, "I must speak with Lord Elrond. I must go west to the Sea, to discover what has happened to the Fish."

The man smiled, "Indeed you must, now that you are ready to ask about Fish. Do you want me to go with you?"

He considered this. "Not to speak to Lord Elrond; I can easily do that myself now. But west," he drew the man closer, "I do not fear the draw of Aman, I do not belong there. But..." he leaned in to lightly nip, in an efficient, token gesture, at the man's neck.

Fingers lightly brushed against his hair and earlobe in combined, return, token gesture. "I have never yet visited the far western lands. I hear that the lands of the halflings lie somewhere there."

"Your experience in wandering these lands and your skill in avoiding conflict with other cultures would be valuable additions to such a venture."

"Then it would be my honour to accompany you, once all is prepared."


	4. Of Dungeons and Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond has had plenty of time to consider his options whilst staring at the walls of a tiny cell in the dungeons of the woodland realm. He believes that he has a winning hand now and is ready to go all-in.
> 
> Does Thranduil hold a truly royal flush that can trump his, or will the canny Elflord once again manage to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat by drawing him into a trap for the overconfident, in the final stage of this high-stakes game?
> 
> Has Thranduil finally grasped the value of the non-elven approach too thoroughly to be defeated even if Elrond wins hands-down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of the first part of this series. Hope you've enjoyed the ride so far.
> 
> Glossary:  
> The Ainurlindalë: The Song of Allcreation  
> Eru Ilúvatar: The Allfather  
> Valar: The highest ranking Champions of Light  
> Istar (singular) a Maiar Champion of Light known commonly as a wizard for their command over elemental magical forces  
> Dúnedain: The descendants of mortal half-elves commonly known as Rangers for their wanderlust  
> Beornings: The only canon-referenced Skin-Changers; presumably the kith and kin of their surviving leader, Beorn; who was a man who was 'under no enchantment but his own' and thus possessed the power to change his skin to that of a great bear at will.  
> Wargs; an aggressive, often wolf-like race, closely associated with orcs and their deeds, who may choose to allow certain orcs to ride upon their backs
> 
> Erebor: Wherein lies the throne of the King Under the Mountain, currently occupied by Daín Ironfoot  
> Imladris: The hidden valley of Rivendell wherein lies the White Council Chamber  
> Lothlórien: Wherein dwells the Lady Galadriel of the White Council along with her people, directly west of the southern reaches of Mirkwood.  
> Trollshaws: The lands directly west of Rivendell, recently renewed in its notoriety as a dangerous place, wherein lie the statues of three trolls who had recently eaten a local farmer, his family and where slowly consuming his scattered, untended livestock, before staying up too late one night arguing over food and being turned to stone one dawn. A story which has probably become popular as a local, moral tale.  
> Eryn Galen: the as-yet-unchanged elven name for the massive forest of Mirkwood, wherein lies the Halls of the King of the Woodland Realm, amongst many other things
> 
> Smaug: a fire-drake of the North, whose anger was aroused by the invasion of Thorin's Company into Erebor and whose dying body fell upon Laketown as it burned
> 
> Ice-wine: headcanon name for ice-distilled, high-alcohol wine.

Thranduil left the man behind in the guest quarters, bidding him to help himself to whatever wines he desired, including the Ice-wine if he so wished. Passing servants shied away from him in horror, for he had once again forgotten his injuries. It was not important enough to him however, for him to make a side-trip to his own rooms to clean himself up. The confidence and purpose he now exuded as a result of the insights gained through the accidental use of Moonshine - a dose which had yet to wear off - forestalled any comments or intervention which might otherwise have occurred.

The dungeons of the woodland realm where not that far from the guest quarters, more because the cellars were below them than for any other reason. Drunkards would occasionally find themselves here to sober up, rather than being left to roam freely if they became disruptive. Thorin's company had not been the first, or the last, to be temporarily incarcerated to keep them from harming themselves or others until they were capable of acting more reasonably. He wondered now, if he had been wrong to detain the band of dwarves. Had he reacted too similarly to the Valar, wishing to keep all things the same and stifling necessary change? Tauriel had certainly thought so. Her love for a dwarf did not seem so unconscionable now. She had recognised worth in the young dwarf that he had overlooked, seeing only a supporter of the heir to the throne of Erebor. She was quieter these days, her continued mourning a testament to the purity of her love. A purity he had sought to corrupt so that she would be spared the pain of loss which he knew only too well.

If he had it all to do over again - had Elrond's ward accompanied Thorin's company rather than remaining behind at Imladris, things might have turned out quite differently. Knowing him as he did now, Thranduil believed that he could have been persuaded. He could have been convinced that with such a member within their company, Smaug might have been convinced in turn, through reason alone, to abandon the halls of Erebor. It felt like history had somehow been derailed from the path it should have taken. This, he concluded, was due to the interference of the Istar, Gandalf. Had he not forced events, they might well have taken a less disastrous route. Why did the forces of Light always have to meddle with things rather than await events to turn out as they ought by themselves? He could only conclude that it was because the Valar had so charged them with doing so, in an attempt to overthrow that which had already been sung in some arrogant conviction of their own superiority. Truly they were inferior to their erstwhile leader, whom they now sought so callously to eliminate from that which had been earmarked as worthy of creation by Eru Ilúvatar. With events already so distorted, it was little wonder that Lord Elrond had seen greater disasters looming in the future. That before these events, neither Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel had Foreseen anything that would have indicated a need to intervene. Peace had already been won, but now everything was building up to a head again. What could so spook an experienced elf such as Elrond that he would have 'nightmares'? An even greater war than the one which had ended only with the defeat of Sauron at the hands of Isildur? Isildur whose heir now roamed with the Dúnedain whom he had sent Legolas to seek out? Had Elrond foreseen the death of his son in a war he had not anticipated? Was this what he had come here hoping to use as leverage, to persuade him that Middle-Earth was not where elves belonged?

It would have worked. He would have abandoned his stance of neutrality in favour of preserving what little tangible proof remained that his wife had once lived. That her life had mattered to anyone other than himself. Thranduil had faith in his son to survive whatever trouble he got himself into, as long as he had allies alongside him. Allies who firmly believed in his superior abilities. But Tauriel's defiance had drawn his son from the safety of his halls, in pursuit of the very orcs who openly claimed to serve an enemy who could not be overcome by any elf alone. He had wanted to show his son that battles should be fought together, if at all; but had only succeeded in horrifying him further. When Legolas had told him that he could not return, he had sought to protect him by steering him to pair up with a worthy ally. Arathorn had been a good man, a worthy ally, and young Aragorn had shown promise from an early age. Should they bond as friends, Thranduil had no doubt that either Aragorn would willingly sail with him to the Undying Lands, or Legolas would become a guardian to the next generation of that line when Aragorn's own life drew to a close. The choice he would make would depend on the events that preceded it, but Legolas would not be doomed to the grief of loss with a Dúnedan at his side. But in a war against the renewed might of Sauron, Isildur's heir would surely be drawn into the fighting, and Legolas along with him. He could not allow this if it could be prevented.

The guards came to attention as he passed them, too disciplined to openly react to his appearance. Pride in his people once again surged within him, and he gracefully acknowledged them in open approval. Silvan culture was indeed superior to the tradition Sindar way of thinking; he had much to live up to, to deserve the fealty these elves offered him. A solider fell in behind him as he descended. It would be his task to fetch the officer of the watch from below, who held the keys to the dungeons. Normally he would have sent word to have a prisoner brought to him, but he felt no need for such conventions right now. He gestured for the guard to overtake him at the lower-bridge, his eyes searching for his nominal prisoner. Earlier, he had anticipated having a quite different conversation with Elrond at this point, after having indulged the visiting man's orcish sense of humour in poking fun at their lordly graces. He had struggled to keep from giving the game away by smiling, when he had asked about possible reprisals from Imladris.

He had thought the obscure reference to the difficulties of slaying dragons an eloquent parody of courtly graces; both utter gibberish designed to rattle the half-elf further, and yet dynamically open to potential interpretation. From his perspective at the time, it had been encouragment that these empty measures would lead to no deadly threats; that he had survived greater fire than anything Imladris could bring to bear upon his battle-scarred hide.

Yet from Elrond's point-of-view, it could easily be interpreted that what had gone before had proved contemptuously inadequate, and that Thranduil must be willing to kill rather than exercise restraint, therefore not to lose his nerve over thoughts of minor consequences if he was to revenge himself on yet another dragon to mark his face.

Again, from the man's own perspective, he might have been implying that he was willing to take full responsibility for the consequences of their actions, for being outcast held no fear for him. Then again, the man had likely spoken to dragons first-hand, and who knew but he, what subtlety of dragon-culture he might be referring to. Maybe he had used that particular phrase in some previous conversation with Elrond, and it was in fact an in-joke - or more appropriately, in-jibe - between them. He might have even been offering Elrond reassurance that he would clean up the mess the Elflord had made, if Elrond just kept his mouth shut and meekly allowed himself to be led away without protesting.

Obscurity was the mother of all encryption, as he well knew from his father's days of negotiative practice. He himself had memorised the entire compendium of key-phrases his father's advisors had used to convey information and suggest tactics.

The man might even have been using an official key-phrase that the delegates of Imladris had settled upon for use in the Woodland Realm. He might have personally been drilled in it, to suggest that he should shut up and go away, leaving trained diplomats to deal with whatever disruption he caused. That would have been the sensible move, given how the man had been presented to him. Was he in fact, even a true ward as Elrond had described him, or was this merely the official version of their relationship that Elrond had persuaded him to adopt in return for allowing him to accompany the delegates?

So many possibilities, each with their own suggestions of merit. A game for Lords alone to play, for who else could keep up with all the intricate weighing and measuring of each possible interpretation? He himself had been preparing his arguments ever since he had agreed to receive Imladris, leaving the logistics of anticipating their physical needs to his master of ceremonies. Elrond had rightly been similarly engaged, even as they travelled towards Eryn Galen. The man whom he had just been talking to so animatedly, was quite probably heart-sick of overhearing all the back-and-forth of what-ifs; and of being snubbed as having nothing to contribute worth listening to. Had his interruption truly been a whim, or a planned public rebellion?

No, Thranduil could not believe him capable of that; not after experiencing the flow of unbridled inspiration firsthand. The man planned nothing - his lag-time in realising how a good host should behave proved that. Whether Elrond had suspected him capable, in that long moment of aftermath in the throne room, was another matter entirely. Or perhaps he had feared something worse; had fretted over which agency was the patron of such a seemingly impossible chain of deduction. Did he believe his ward possessed by dark forces?

Thranduil smiled at that potential interpretation. It seemed so childish now to segregate the world into forces of good and evil; there was only the Ainurlindalë and Eru Ilúvatar who had ratified it as worthy. Yet he must keep it in mind Elrond's zealous devotion to the cause of Light, if he was to avoid scaring him. He could see now, why the man dubbed the task of talking Elrond into anything 'impossible alone'. Had he been rash or wise to present himself separately to the Elflord? He would soon find out.

The Elflord looked up at him from a pose of utter defeat; a pitiable sight, hunched over in his comfortless cell. His stricken expression at the colourful injuries he had personally inflicted morphed to horror at the sight of the additional maiming, and fear returned to his eyes as he sprung to his feet and approached the barred door of his cell. "It isn't possible," he pleaded, probably more to himself than to Thranduil, "He shouldn't be able to hurt anyone with that much Moonshine in his bloodstream."

The Elvenking merely raised an eyebrow at that, curious as to what the Elflord would draw as conclusions without his direct intervention. He had quite forgotten that Moonshine was supposed to suppress violent tenancies - it had so many, much more important, qualities.

"King Thranduil, if I may be so bold, would you please but permit me to tend your injuries, despite my recent, most regrettable actions?"

In hindsight, humility was a predictable opening move. The Elflord had probably factored in the effects of Moonshine and half-expected Thranduil to turn up untended. Pride surged in recognition of their shared heritage; this one would be a formidable ally in future events if he could but form bonds of respectful recognition between them. He inclined his head gravely in acquiescence, turning slightly to watch the officer of the watch approach, keys jingling in his hand. He showed no surprise at his king's appearance, forewarned or merely from stoicism, and equally no surprise at the order to 'fetch the healer whatever supplies he deems necessary'; a task he immediately delegated to the guard who had returned with him. That he must unlock the cell door and remain to guard it, he deduced for himself.

'Horthor', Thranduil recalled - a brother to those things which drive us to act - a promising young guard who took pride in the efficient execution of his duties. Discretion and not needing things spelled out for him, had earned him early promotion to a position of greater responsibility. Born long after the prince, he had been a quick learner, often seen trailing his older brother, Dachanar; whose face Thranduil recalled amongst those slain in the streets of Dale after the ambush at Erebor. The young elf met his eyes when his king did not immediately enter into the cell. "Your mother, how is she?"

It was not a particularly pleasant topic to enquire into, yet Horthor seemed to take it in the spirit it was meant. "She improves slowly, my King. She will be pleased to hear that you enquired after her." This brief exchange was enough to indicate to the youngster that he was not merely a nameless face in armour to his liege, and that his family's loss was not something that had been forgotten. Such things were more important now, than ever before.

Thranduil nodded in acknowledgement, and entered the tiny space designed for merely one occupant, taking a seat at the far end of the stone cot so that Elrond would be next to the door, ready to receive the supplies soon to be handed in to him. It also left Thranduil facing the meagre light which entered the cell, so that Elrond could see to work. Beyond that, it was a tacit offer of psychological reassurance, to position the Elflord where he would be if he was tending to an injured prisoner, rather than the one imprisoned. Combined with the sympathetic tone he had taken with the officer of the watch, he had, however subconsciously, presented himself as in a mood conducive to reconciliation. All this, he knew that the Elflord could accurately read into, thus it was an open invitation to speak as freely as he dared.

"I offer my sincerest apologies King Thranduil. It was unwise of me to indulge my ward's demand that I offset earlier errors in my dealings with him, by joining him in consuming something I knew to be heavily laced with the drugs I personally had encouraged him to take."

Thranduil repressed the urge to laugh aloud at this, obviously rehearsed, phrasing. Only a slight smile leaked. Such a diplomatic way of recalling the events; admitting error whilst shuffling blame onto cited circumstances which no parent would envy. 'My child is extremely ill, and I regretted being too busy to be there for him' was a very strong play. It was undoubtedly one of a set of defensive recovery strategies, that he had NOT practiced within his ward's hearing.

"Recently my mind has been revolving around larger affairs, things that will affect all of us whether we wish them to or not."

Again, a very strong play; hinting at foreknowledge without blatantly stating that this was the case, broadly encompassing all perspectives in one sweeping statement: 'We're all in the same boat and MY priority is to see that as many of us survive as possible' .

"I have not been able to give him as much of my time as I normally would, and thus he seeks to redress that slight by competing with me for your attention. He scorns the limits of decency set by diplomacy in an effort to win you over to his way of thinking and thus, prove himself worthy of attention once more. Of being considered important enough to be listened to.

"He is ruthless in this pursuit, willing to use any means at his disposal without thought for the wider consequences. He has the self-confidence of youth on his side, unburdened by depth of experience. In such naïvety he conjectures with wild surmise, discounting the wisdom of experience in an attempt to present himself as a true equal to whomever he is speaking to. He is thus incredibly resistant to learning social graces, for he sees no merit in them. Rather than accept himself as inferior to anyone else, he would normally respond to being proved to be so, by ensconcing himself in the nearest library. There he will lick his wounds and attempt to overcome the limitations of his knowledge by attempting to become more knowledgeable on the subject his perspective has been defeated by, than the person he has been so ignominiously out-argued by.

"He will not accept the simple fact that one so young cannot hope to know better than his elders. He holds that all people are equal, and he is desperate to prove this to be true by competing against others whose counsel is respected more greatly than his own. However, his refusal to acknowledge others as being less knowledgeable than him - for in his mind this would make them inferior to him which he equally will not accept - means that he will attempt to talk to everyone as if they have studied all the same texts as he has. This assumption of either equal or greater knowledge in all matters is difficult for the less studious of my people to cope with. They shy away from him rather than seek him out in matters where he proves himself of superior understanding, because his uncompromising attitude of equality makes them feel that they should not need to seek out anyone superior to themselves except to seek to disprove that superiority.

"Equally he cannot easily form relationships with those more knowledgeable, because of his attitude of knowing better than they do. Yet he is not arrogant in himself, which confuses people. The fact that he is talking as if he knows better, is a direct mimicry of the way the people he admires - the people who have proved themselves more knowledgeable to him - have directly spoken to him. He never censors himself in reaction to setbacks, and thus he constantly garners easily avoidable grief.

"Headstrong doesn't even begin to cover his attitude towards life. He lacks the emotional intuition to take time for matters of the heart; instead, using Moonshine to try to break through natural, healthy barriers which would slow his purely academic progress. If I limited his supply, he would simply research the techniques required to produce it himself, skipping over properly learning the skills needed to do so that would consume centuries of time. Yet I do not believe his mind to be broken, merely extremely imbalanced in a manner that he is resistant to correcting.

"I regret the fact that you have been drawn into this situation. I had first thought to divert him from accompanying us by encouraging him to bond with a newborn foal, in which case he would have been too busy spending every waking moment in its company to concern himself with anything else. But in this matter, I bowed to the enduring wisdom of Lothlórien. The Lady Galadriel Foresees where I cannot, and she persuaded me that he was not fated to remain in my care much longer. She told me that he was bound for Erebor, and that I must not seek to prevent him from travelling east."

"Was this before or after Thorin's dwarves passed through Imladris?" Thranduil broke in.

"Both. Soon after he first arrived, she warned me not to get too attached to him. That it was in his nature to wander and never to belong.

As for Thorin's company, the White Council met whilst Gandalf and the group were in residence. Before that meeting, she urged me not to discourage my ward from leaving Imladris, saying that all might find an easier path were he to move on, as he had always done before. To 'not try to tame a wolf to come lie before the fire, at the feet of its master'. She said that the wargs recognise his voice on the wind; that he would draw them to the valley in response to his cries of pain.

"At that time I was already giving him the maximum recommended dose of Moonshine, and still he could not process enough to break the habits of violence. He would sneak out of the valley to vent his frustrations. The farmers would come to Imladris, telling wild tales of a werewolf roaming the Trollshaws. They even brought with them, evidence of its destructive habits; pieces of wood bearing toothmarks none of them could identify. Marks that match those on your throat. Yet, when I confronted him, asked directly if he was a Beorning, he said only that whilst he had indeed met the last of the Skin-Changers, that having yellow-eyes was no proof of kinship. I got the impression that the twoof them did not part on good terms.

"Yet the arrival of the dwarves in Imladris seemed to improve relationships between him and my people, by comparative examples of behaviour. He displayed a knack for smoothing ruffled feathers when he was not the cause of complaint, and people were starting to speak well of him. I thought to persuade the halfling to remain with us, to interest Mithrandir in the possibility of a trade. But the dwarves were gone before I could broach the topic, and he convinced me that changing horses in midstream would be ill-advised.

"When the halfling returned through Imladris, I believe that my ward courted his friendship primarily to receive an insider's perspective of the events. He was miserable for weeks after Bilbo moved on, and at first I thought he merely missed his friend. But I was mistaken. He was incredibly angry with everyone at that point. Including me for switching him from Moonshine to Honeydust. He got loud, and then got violent. He was in the sick-rooms for months after. I thought this the future which Galadriel had Foreseen and attempted to forestall."

The return of the guard with healing supplies interrupted Elrond's explanations. Horthor was much more courteous towards the Lord of Imladris now, having overheard much that implied extenuating circumstances leading up to the current events that did not fault Thranduil's leadership or imply error in his judgement to imprison the diplomat given limited information on which to base his decision. By this reaction, the Elvenking judged the Elflord as highly skilled in whitewashing his own actions as the noble healer and guardian of a very difficult individual, who was beyond being reasoned with when violence and insult would serve his purposes better. Less a Dúnedan than a young yet overgrown dwarf in nature. Tauriel's own opinion of dwarves would be an influence on the young officer's personal conclusions, but unlikely to be so great as to override the enduring sense of personal loss that could easily be blamed upon the stubbornness of dwarves at its root. Had Thorin not been so hasty to rush towards Erebor, much might have been different, and Dachanar might still be alive. Horthor as yet had no idea of the exact details that had led to Elrond's incarceration, but he had received his promotion for not being a mere solider to jump to conclusions based upon mere rumour. This one could think for himself, and there was much in Elrond's depiction of his ward that the officer might find insightful and engendering of the need to make allowances for disruption.

Thranduil concluded that he had been in error to state that the man presented himself as a perpetual child; for this was a perspective that his guardian actively encouraged in others where the man actively sought to present himself as an equal to everyone he met, however clumsily stitched together from the broad range of linguistic expressions of perspectives which he had encountered in short-order. His ideology, by comparison to his choice of phrasing, tonality and mannerisms in social situations, was however, very much his own logical conclusions, however many shortcuts he took through intuitive leaps in understanding. Academic knowledge drawn from written records was very much the local currency of Imladris, so he could easily see that the man, like himself, would feel the need to counteract being snubbed by more learnèd individuals by retreating to the archives. He did not however believe that this had been his approach to life before he had been handed into Elrond's care as a Darkness-corrupted mental-patient. The continuing presentation of him as such, might work on Horthor, but he was not so easily persuaded. He felt pride over his new scars. The Elflord was attempting to present a persuasive perspective on a wayward child and in so doing, excuse the violence of his own actions by comparison, if as much to himself as anyone else. We are our own yardstick of what is believable to others, for if we can convince ourselves of something, that self-belief will draw others into similar beliefs, he concluded. Was this not what his father had attempted to convey to him on the art of warfare, politics and even religion?

'Beware of inducing zealotry, for zealots believe in the omniscience of their leaders. They will betray you when they realise that you are not a god in elven form. Silvans naturally reject such pretentious ideas; this is their culture and it is to be respected as sacrosanct. Never insist that you know best, merely because they rank you above themselves; or you will become a blind dictator of soldiers instead of a wise leader of warriors, and thus unworthy of their belief in you as a Sindar more nobly born than themselves.'

Oropher had believed in the intrinsic nobility of Sindar elves. Believed that they were right to be seen that way by others. Thranduil had concluded for himself that nobility was more about an inherent devotion to moral obligation, than it was about being simplistically 'better' than others across the board. That Silvans should be left to be Silvans, and Sindar should be encouraged to be different from that. That Sindar should marry only their own, in order to preserve and further that nobility and inherent devotion to safeguarding those things which deserved preservation from the corruption of outside influences. It had made sense of his father's ideology to him. Distinctiveness deserved defence from destructive forces. He still believed that, but it was not all he believed in nowadays. Destructive forces were not intrinsically evil to his eyes now. Preservation of what had always been could be equally ugly, for it allowed for no greater works than that which had already been presented as the epitome of perfection. By what right could anything new enter the world, if perfection had already been achieved? Not one new child, not one new thought, could be justified if all that came after, was intrinsically lesser than what had already been seen, said and done. Surely this was the root of Elrond's argument, that it was right that men should succeed in inheriting Middle-Earth. But conversely, by what yardstick were men judged intrinsically greater than elves? Merely that they were not Firstborn and therefore that their mere existence proved that what had gone before must be inferior, or they could not exist? Elves were to consider themselves so intrinsically worthless as to deserve to be archived away and forgotten about, just so that men could not be plagued by doubts of being inferior? He had been raised to believe that governing Silvans was the great privilege of being born noble, not that they would have been better off if his family had never darkened their days with their leadership. Yet they were to prepare to retire to Aman because the Age of Men was approaching? What intrinsically greater right had Men alone to reside in Middle-Earth?

He almost said as much aloud, but Elrond spoke first, having finished tending his injuries whilst their minds had obviously wandered along different pathways to each other. "What I Foresaw today only confirms what Lady Galadriel imparted to me when she corrected my interpretation of her words, before my party undertook the journey here. I cannot easily explain what I have Foreseen, for it does not seem possible, and I have no desire to offer you false hope..."

"I have often held that patience was my strongest play, but I believe that I understand your ward's frustration in being made to wait for no self-evident reason right now."

Elrond smiled subtly in amusement. "A Virtue greatly undervalued by the young."

"As is the infinite depth of the double-talk intrinsic to diplomatic graces."

The Elflord gave this due consideration, pondering Thranduil's statement in contemplative silence for several minutes. "You believe him." he concluded aloud. "Despite everything which has happened, right now, you believe every single word that he has said to you. Perhaps it would be better if we were to delay having this conversation until we have all had chance to put such things into perspective."

"You are perfectly welcome to remain down here and meditate on your stance until this forest is nothing more than a memory. I however, have duties of care to attend to." He stood to leave as Horthor opened the door to the cell with deft alacrity, the two warriors trading a warm gaze of proud approval as the Elvenking brushed past the incarcerated diplomat. Elrond's surprise as Horthor locked him in again was plainly evident upon his face, though he made no undisciplined movements to forestall the sudden ending of their conversation. "It is a shame," Thranduil observed through the bars, "That you indeed proved too chary to admit your own errors." Turning to Horthor he continued, "No-one is to speak to him, and you would be wise not to take what you have heard here at face value."

Coming to attention in acknowledgement, Horthor turned to descend at exactly the same moment as Thranduil turned to ascend the stairs. The pair got counted twenty steps in unison before Elrond called out, "I Foresaw Thiadwen."

Horthor paused and stepped to stand at attention with his back to the wall, as Thranduil froze. No-one spoke Her name here. Not even Her son, Prince Legolas. Had Thranduil ordered the Elflord executed for such a blatant breach of common decency, no-one here would have thought worse of him for it, foreign diplomatic relations disregarded. Wars had been fought over lesser claims than this.

"She is dead." Thranduil intoned, his voice queered by memory. Tauriel spoke that way too often for comfort these days.

"I am aware of this. However, I recall the words my ward spoke to you in my presence."

"A lot has been said since then."

"And said with a drunken confidence rivaling that of one blessed with omniscience, no doubt. But before he started filling your head with his own perspectives, you asked him a question. A question he blatantly sidestepped by asking you to answer it about yourself. The first set of ideas spoken about whilst dosed on appropriate medication, by someone who is suffering from emotional repression - however seemingly inappropriate at the time - are often the most telling. And he parrots the attitudes shown to him by those he respects as knowing more than he does."

"And I recall you," and Thranduil began to stalk slowly back down the steps, "Attempting to 'mother-hen' him over how much he was drinking, yet not being so arrogant as to believe that you knew better than me, how much wine I should limit myself to in order to remain clear-headed." He faced Elrond, eyes blazing, "Truly there would be no game of politics to play, if all skilled diplomats where not emotionally repressed. The entire venture revolves around attempting to out-compete each other at repressing emotions; success is defined as spotting emotional leakage in the other, labelling it as weakness, and exploiting it to defend your own position.

"You, who are renowned as a healer, reverse everything you represent yourself to be to him to present yourself as a diplomat. You, who have been attempting to teach one such as him the importance of not repressing his emotions, only to reverse this back on itself to indulge in verbal-warfare with me and ignore him. You, who claim not to understand why he objects to this blatant inconsistency in your attitude towards what you consider to be worthy of your time. I ask you, the same question your young protégé so neatly sidestepped: 'Is your entire life akin to a tragic saga, or are you just dumb?' "

And he stalked back up the stairs, leaving the Elflord dumbstruck; gesturing for the quietly smiling officer to follow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments challenges:
> 
> Linguistics:  
> Common-knowledge category;  
> What tongue-in-cheek interpretations spring to mind by my use of the word 'Moonshine' and related terms in the context of this story?
> 
> Obscure-reference category;  
> Where have I 'borrowed' the word 'Honeydust' from, and what tongue-in-cheek interpretations does it suggest to you?
> 
> Foreign-language category;  
> What does my pen-name translate as, and what tongue-in-cheek interpretations can you guess for this in the context of this story?
> 
> Religious-reflection category;  
> Does this story provide a clear idea of the author's translation of the word 'agape', and does this definition gloss for you in the context of a religious premise in Tolkien's universe? (Fictional-context comments only please)
> 
> Guidelines:  
> Don't feed the Trolls  
> Cooperative answers encouraged  
> If you have to ask, you're taking it too seriously  
> If all else fails but you want to join-in, guess - supposed to be fun!


End file.
